


Two Steps to the Left

by Etothefifth



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Glacial Updates, Like really much much later, headcanons presented as fact, some listed characters only appear in later chapters, timelines have been gleefully scrambled, we're talking bi-annual here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 104,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etothefifth/pseuds/Etothefifth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Outsider makes another choice, and visits a man in a prison cell with promises and a gift that cannot be refused. Corvo escapes Coldridge under his own power, and it changes the way he views those around him.</p><p>Or-</p><p>A novelization of the game, told two steps to the left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This thing is a monster that has completely left my control. It started when I thought about 'what IF the Outsider had come to Corvo in Coldridge, would things change, and how?' and now this has happened. It follows the game plot, in some places more specifically and identically than others, and in some places it veers off into the distance without my permission. I mess with game mechanics a little, and try to answer some of the questions that occurred to me while playing in a satisfactory manner, that still fits in with the general feel of the game. In some places, particularly heart quotes and the various letters and books lying around in game to read, I have taken lines and quotes directly from the game. A lot of conversations parallel occurrences in the game, as well, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.
> 
> Basically this thing has gotten crazy, and I hope you enjoy it.

                Corvo does not sleep well in his cell.

                Most days, he cannot even sit on the edge of his bed without pain, for the Royal Interrogator is relentless in his craft, and his back and limbs are crisscrossed with blood and burns.  Raising his arms brings the same hot sting, and more than once he has felt feeble scabs tear open to trail fresh blood down his skin if he so much as reaches for the hard heels of bread Coldridge provides to its prisoners.

                Tonight he stands at the window of his cell, staring out into the bleak emptiness of the execution yard. He will kneel there in a scant few days, if Burrows and Campbell are to be believed. The months have stolen much of his fresh fury from him in the same manner they have stolen the strength of his body; now he simply quivers, hate simmering impotently below the surface. The chains joining his wrists clink as his hands clench into fists. There is nothing he can do, and he detests it. Jessamine is dead, her killer walks free, and the man who orchestrated it all will now rise to the throne. Corvo himself will pay for a crime he did not, _would_ not ever commit, and the truth will die with him.

                He thinks of Emily, and his heart aches. If nothing else, he wishes he could help her. Sweet Emily, with her smiles and laughter, forced to watch her mother die, snatched from the only life she ever knew, and Corvo can do nothing. He closes his eyes, letting his head drop, paying no heed to the way the movement stretches the skin on his upper back painfully. He has failed, so thoroughly that he can barely comprehend it.

                Wrenching his thoughts away for fear of losing himself in the darkness, he turns around, walking stiffly from barred window to sealed door, peering dully at a guard seated at a little table a few paces from the door of his cell. If only they would believe him. If only twenty years of loyal service meant enough to grant him the freedom he needs to pursue the ones who deserve to be punished.

                Corvo eases down onto his bed, his back twinging irritably. There are hours left until the food cart comes around, and maybe he can force a few hours of sleep. He can’t sleep on his back anymore, and burying his face in the pillow still feels uncomfortable. Curled uneasily on his side, one wrist crossed over the other, Corvo closes his eyes. Sleeping never comes easy, hindered both by the pain of his body and the maelstrom in his mind.

                Tonight, though, several things seem to be conspiring against him. The Month of High Cold is never forgiving, but the air is so cold now that his breath ghosts out in front of his face. He can hear a pair of rats in the corner, squeaking softly to each other and climbing over and through the refuse. Corvo’s face twitches into a scowl and he curls a little tighter, wishing the prison’s boiler would be more effective. Then again, the comfort of those destined for death must not be a high priority.

                A tiny scraping sound from the next cell over begins, staccato and unpredictable. His neighbor must be carving a new message into the walls. As the sound persists, the guard at the table raises his head and says “Shut up!” Reluctantly, the prisoner falls into silence, grumbling under his breath.

                This is what Corvo is reduced to. A cage he did not earn, trapping him in helpless fury, with the only people he ever cared about dead or missing, and beyond his reach.

                If only, he thinks, if only he could _do_ something.

                These are the thoughts that chase him into sleep.

\-----

                It is the ringing that prompts Corvo to open his eyes. The sound is subtle, but pervasive, and as he rubs at his eyes, he looks around for the source.

                All thoughts of sleep evaporate at once. He is still sitting on the bed in his cell, but the walls and bars have vanished, and the floor crumbles into scattered slabs of rock hovering impossibly over a wide blue expanse of nothingness. His handcuffs are gone and the wounds on his body seem to have vanished, leaving him whole and unharmed in his prison trousers. Hesitantly he rises and steps forward, peering down over the edge. A school of fish swims lazily some dozen meters below him, flicking their tails and moving through the blue-lit emptiness.

                Eyes wide, Corvo steps back, turning to see that a kind of pathway has formed behind him, built of floating cobblestone. He follows it, steps still unsure. Before his eyes, new scenes are materializing, leaving behind the dark misery of Coldridge. Lackwa Boulevard forms beneath his feet, lampposts rising around him and the bank of the Wrenhaven just off to his left. Rather than the gleaming surface of the river, as he might expect, water falls upward in great sheets, pouring against an unseen surface far above.

                Lackwa Boulevard melds smoothly into the deck of a ship, eerie and abandoned by any captain or crew. He hesitates by the railing, one hand on the cold metal, his heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears.

                Behind him, a voice says, “My dear Corvo, here at last.”  
                Corvo whirls, one hand groping for a blade that isn’t there. Floating serenely above the deck is a man, one leg bent slightly as if he were merely leaning against a wall. Lingering wisps of shadow, or darkness, or _Void_ , Corvo realizes, cling to the man’s frame, curling and dissipating around his shoulders. The man smiles, just slightly, blinking eyes that are black from lid to lid.

                “The Outsider,” Corvo breathes, and he feels his knees go weak.

                Seeming pleased with the recognition, the Outsider inclines his head. He studies Corvo for a long, breathless moment, the tendrils of Void around his shoulders creating the only movement. Then some gleam in his dark eyes seems to change, and he crosses his arms, opening his mouth to speak. “With the Empress dead and her heir, young Lady Emily, missing, this city faces a time of turmoil, in which you will play an important part. But for this, you will need a… helping hand, shall we say.”

                Corvo clings to the railing behind him with both hands, no longer trusting his shaking legs to support him. “You’re- you’re freeing me?” he asks, incredulity coloring his words.

                The Outsider shakes his head. “No. I would not intervene so directly. Rather, I will give you a gift, if you choose to accept it.”

                A small part of Corvo wants to ask ‘what kind of gift,’ but the rest of him is frozen in shock. There is a god there before him, not quite smiling down at him with black, black eyes, waves of power coiling and thrashing around him. Corvo knows the stories, as everyone does, of witches and heathens, of the lunatics and madmen that the Overseers spend every waking moment attempting to subdue. But to see the Outsider in the flesh, to know that the stories of magic and blood are based firmly in truth, and to know that this is being offered to _him_ …

                There has to be some sort of catch. There always is. No gift comes without a price or an expectation of some sort, and the favor of a god can be no exception. But the Outsider is offering Corvo power, and strength, and the ability to act when he thought all had been lost, and the chance to save Emily and perhaps right some of the wrong in the world sits so sweetly in his mind. So he clenches his fists, and meets the Outsider’s gaze, and says, “I accept.”

                “Good,” the Outsider says, unfolding his arms. He gestures at Corvo’s left side, offering his hand as if in invitation. Hesitantly, Corvo reaches out, too, until their fingertips just barely touch.

                The skin on the back of his hand burns and he gasps, looking away from the Outsider for the first time, watching an intricate brand burn its way across his skin in orange and blue. When it is complete, the symbol glows solid gold, then fades into a steady black.

                “With my Mark,” the Outsider says, and Corvo’s head snaps up to face him, “power beyond the reach of your world will now obey your will. This will aid you on your journey, no matter the path you may choose to take.”

                Drifting backward slightly and trailing streamers of shadow, the Outsider smiles widely, spreading his arms in invitation. With a voice that can only be described as taunting, he says, “Now find me.” With a faint rushing sound, he vanishes in patches, melding seamlessly back into the fabric of the Void.

                As soon as the deity fades, Corvo allows his knees to buckle. He stares at his Marked hand, disbelieving and amazed. He traces the shape with a fingertip, expecting it to be raised, but his skin feels just as smooth as it had before. It flares just slightly beneath the touch of his finger, glowing orange and blue and golden and giving off a faint hum.

                Is this really happening?

                Somewhere behind him, a few low notes of whalesong echo, reminding him of the task set before him. Carefully, he stands, ensuring his feet will hold his weight before he releases the railing. When he looks around, he can see the cobblestone pathway back to the image of his bed, but he sees no obvious path forward. He looks down at the deck of the ship, finding a hatch that presumably leads into the hull below. He pulls it open, revealing not the inside of a ship, but a grand ballroom. It is one he recognizes, he realizes with a pang. This was the ballroom in Dunwall Tower, decorated exactly as it was when Jessamine took the throne after Euhorn’s death.

                Corvo drops inside, bringing one hand forward to catch himself for the landing. There are guests done up in their most formal regalia, some smiling at each other over glasses of Tyvian wine, some dancing near a quartet of musicians, some lurking near the walls, something like wistfulness in their faces. Each and every person is frozen in mid movement, their eyes glassy and dim. In fact, nothing at all moves, save for a trio of rats chittering in a corner. Noting this as important, Corvo approaches, weaving between lords and ladies. Hearing his footsteps, one of the rats turns and bolts, darting beneath a table and wriggling itself into an exposed air duct.

                A whisper begins in Corvo’s mind, quiet and secret. When he raises his hand, he learns it comes from the Mark. He listens intently, but he cannot quite make out the words; they don’t seem to be in any language he recognizes.

                Slowly, a kind of urge prods gently into his thoughts, unobtrusive and unassuming. Considering the nature of the situation, Corvo obeys it, raising his left hand and reaching out as if to grasp a rat still several meters away. The whisper peaks in intensity, and he can _almost_ hear the sounds, and suddenly his world is shifting. He doesn’t have time to gasp before his entire being is compressed and twisted, shrinking into dull grays and whites and suddenly he is much lower to the ground, face nearly pressed to the floor. A sound next to him draws his attention, and a rat looms large and inquisitive beside him, scrubbing its paws together and twitching its nose.

                He has become the rat, somehow. He blinks beady rodent eyes in amazement, adjusting to his new perspective. It takes a moment to figure out how to walk on four feet, but soon he is following another hunch, slipping beneath the same table and squeezing into the same air duct as the rat that came before. The passage is claustrophobic, and Corvo does not linger; he does not want to think about what might happen if he were to revert to his human shape in such a small space.

                The tunnel gradually shifts and warps around him, changing from squared to rounded, and soon he is tumbling out onto an expanse of concrete. All at once, his vision constricts and blurs, and he hunches his little rat body, trying to fight past the pain. Without warning, he is human again, looking down at the tiny, dead body of a rat.

                So he was right to assume he would be unable to keep another form for long. That’s good to know.

                Standing a little taller, he takes in his new surroundings. It has the image of a whale oil processing yard, though without any workers or even any machinery beyond the great pipes and storage towers. He shrugs and moves on, passing cracks in the floor that reveal glowing swathes of pale blue light. He has to crouch to duck under a large pipe, and on the other side he is suddenly on the clock tower, shifted horizontally so he is walking up its forward face. When he reaches the mechanism, the path stops, and he has to pause, looking for a way forward.

                Rotating gently from side to side, nearly seven meters in front of him, a platform floats, holding a single white rat. Understanding, Corvo repeats his reaching gesture, feeling the power whirl through him in whispers and rushes. Then he is the rat, sitting up on his haunches, sniffing the air. Even to his rodent senses, the Void has no scent, and he relaxes onto four paws, considering. Can he choose to revert to his human shape, or does he have to wait for the magic to end on its own? The thought is barely formed before he is standing again on two feet, panting in sudden exhaustion.

                He hadn’t noticed before, but a headache seems to be forming in the base of his skull. Doing his best to ignore it, he presses onward, walking first from the formless cobblestone road onto a wooden floor, evidently part of a bar. Three men he doesn’t recognize are frozen in seated positions in a booth, drinks clutched in their hands and heads ducked together conspiratorially. One wearing the uniform of an Overseer is gesturing, mouth open, as a severe-looking bulldog of a man and a slender man with a broad forehead nod solemnly. Corvo pays them little heed as he continues forward.

                When he arrives at a large column of ascending water, he doesn’t understand. It is only when he sees a fish’s silver scales flash that he begins to get an idea. Well-practiced now, he reaches forward, anticipating the whispers and the twist.

                The Mark on his hand glows dimly, before fading back to black, no thrum of magic racing up and down his spine.

                Wondering if perhaps this power doesn’t work on anything beyond rats, Corvo looks around. A little ways away, against the overturned shape of a rowboat is a chest, painted a deep navy blue. Corvo opens it, revealing a single vial of blue liquid seated in a blanket of cloth. He recognizes it as one of the plague preventatives circulating- Piero’s Remedy, or something like that. Figuring that nothing in the Void would appear without a reason, Corvo uncorks the bottle, tipping it to his lips.

                As he drinks, the headache at the base of his skull begins to fade. Understanding lights in his eyes, and he wipes his mouth and places the empty bottle back in the chest. Raising his Marked hand again, he extends toward the fish, closing his eyes and letting himself be carried.

                If he had trouble with a rat’s feet, it is nothing compared to the shock of having no limbs. Once he stops spinning in circles, he orients himself upward, flicking his tail sharply. Interestingly, there is no current, against what the flow of the water might suggest. Instead, the water is still and silent, moving past him with nary a ripple.

                Just when he begins to feel the pressure trying to force him back to his normal shape, a stone ledge forms, and he spills himself from the water gratefully, taking great gulps of the air. He rises to his feet, oddly surprised to find himself dry.

                He walks barely two steps before the air in front of him condenses and the Outsider manifests, still wreathed in black. “My power will serve you well, Corvo,” he says, something like satisfaction in those dark eyes. “But I have one more gift to give.” He uncrosses his arms, cupping the air, and a grotesque amalgamation of human heart and clockwork blurs into existence, bobbing lightly just above his palm. It seems to beat, slowly, a glass panel revealing a tiny shining light inside. “This living heart will guide you to those objects of my power that remain in your world, hidden though they may be from human eyes. It will share with you secrets and truths that have faded from memory and sight, if you choose to listen. Take the heart now, and find the rune bearing my Mark.”

                Without another word, he melts away again, leaving the clockwork heart floating gently. Corvo reaches up to take it, feeling the power thrum through his palm. It beats solidly against his fingers, little gears spinning and pulsing. He lifts it and moves it from side to side, watching as its beat speeds and slows, matched by the intensity of its inner glow. Carrying it before him, he walks down the forming pathway, stepping carefully from floating stone to floating stone.

                Before long, he comes to a drop, and he braces himself, squeezing the heart tight to ensure it does not escape his grip. As he does, a female voice whispers, ‘ _All of time is meaningless here. Neither seconds nor centuries._ ’

                He lands, scuffing his free hand against the concrete. As he stands, he squeezes the heart again, expression thoughtful. The voice breathes, ‘ _Someday, this place will devour all the lights in the sky._ ’ Once more, he squeezes the heart, and it says, ‘ _The one who walks here is all things. Cradle songs of comfort and bones gnawed by teeth_.’

                Corvo shivers, and decides not to test the heart any longer.

                The pathway is straightforward, cobblestone rising to his feet when he approaches edges and no walls blocking his path. As soon as he thinks it, a doorway _does_ appear before him, set into a wall with peeling and stained paper. Turning the handle, Corvo steps into a wood-floored room, one with little furniture and less space. This escapes his notice, though, because _Emily_ is laying on the floor, her legs kicked up and a drawing in front of her. She is frozen, too, like the guests at Jessamine’s coronation ball and the three men in the pub. He steps closer, bowing slightly to take in the picture. It is of Emily herself, a frown on her drawn face, with two looming and black figures approaching her from behind.

                Corvo frowns too. Anyone who has hurt Emily will face his judgement before long.

                Stepping forward, promising himself that he will come for Emily as soon as he can, he walks beyond the wooden floor onto a round carved stone, nearly ten meters across. At the end opposite him, an altar stands, swathed in violet fabric with intricate golden embellishments. On a wooden-hewn table, surrounded by whale oil lamps, a carved circle of bone rests, exuding the same shadowy aura that clings to the Outsider. When Corvo points the heart toward it, the clockwork whizzes and it nearly beats out of his hand.

                Corvo approaches the rune, lifting it gently from its resting place. The moment his hand touches the bone, the Outsider manifests, still floating easily a short distance above the ground. “My runes can enhance your powers,” he says, staring at Corvo with a nearly-disturbing intensity, “ _if_ you choose to use them. You have the freedom to expend them as you see fit, as have the others bearing my Mark before you.” At last, his gaze drifts, and he looks at a place over Corvo’s left shoulder, eyes going unfocused. “Your choice is of little consequence. No matter your decisions, your role remains unchanged.”

                The heart has gone still in Corvo’s clenched hand. As the Outsider has not vanished, nor dismissed him, he hesitantly asks, “You said ‘expend’ the runes… How?”

                The Outsider’s attention returns to Corvo’s face, a hint of a smile upon his mouth. “These runes are carved with magic centuries old. They have passed through many hands, and fueled many acts of power. To bind them to you, you must in turn offer a piece of yourself.” At Corvo’s expression of barely stifled alarm, the Outsider’s smile widens, and he says, “Your blood will suffice.”

                Slightly reassured, Corvo looks down at the bone in his hand. The metal shackles around the edges should be sharp enough for the job. Steeling himself, he drives the pad of his thumb across the edge of the metal, splitting his skin cleanly. As the blood wells, driven by the same instinct that taught him his magic, he smears his thumb across the carved Mark in the bone. The carving glows golden bright, and as the light fades, so does the rune, slowly dissipating into a mist that rises lazily into the air. This cloud lingers, and knowledge suddenly shoves forward into Corvo’s consciousness. He could be stronger, healthier, or he could see in the dark, aware of anyone approaching. Or if he gathers more power, he could do even better, melting his enemies to ash, making his steps light as a feather, or even more fantastic abilities. Or he could release the claim, and the rune would reform in his hand, and he could keep it until later.

                Unsure if it will work, he _wills_ the rune’s magic toward enhancing his vision. He gets a vague sense of affirmation, and the mist coalesces and curls down toward the back of his left hand, layering over the Mark before vanishing completely. A new instinct and knowledge rises in his mind, and he takes the heart from his left hand so he can curl his fingers into the shape he does not _see_ so much as _know_. A new, different whisper sounds, and the blues and violets of the Void blur into sepia and orange. In his free hand, the heart glows yellow, and a voice murmurs ‘ _alive_ ’ at the sight.

                The Outsider, he notes, does not glow at all.

                “Very good,” the deity says, eyes going satisfied again. Corvo releases this new Dark Vision, and the color comes rushing back into the world.

                “You have two days until your execution,” the Outsider says, “surely you can escape by then. After all, I will be watching.” He bows close, and Corvo forgets to breathe, overwhelmed by black, black eyes that seem to swallow the light around them. “Keep it interesting, won’t you?”

                And Corvo feels himself melting piece by piece as he is sent from the Void, heart still clutched close and magic burning on the back of his hand.

\------

                Corvo gasps awake, lurching upright. Then he is gasping for another reason as his wounds reassert their existence with vehemence, searing across his shoulders and down his back. This pain is familiar, though, and he has learned how to grit his teeth through it and let it lessen and pass.

                When he is centered enough to open his eyes, he looks down at his hands. The clockwork heart is heavy in his palm, and the back of his left hand is inked with black.

                 It wasn’t a dream.

                He tucks the heart underneath his pillow, slowly turning to look around his cell. He must have slept through the food cart, for there is a plate just inside his cell door. Bread again, with the quarter-dose of Sokolov’s Health Elixir allotted to prisoners each day. Already, a rat is nosing forward curiously, sniffing the air. Corvo laboriously gets to his feet, making shooing motions. It’s probably the clanking of the chains of his cuffs that does the trick, sending the rodent scurrying through the bars.

                He squats, trying to minimize the amount of bending his back has to do. The elixir he downs in one long drag, grimacing slightly at the taste. He takes the bread back to his bed, tearing it to pieces as best he can against several days’ staleness and the bindings on his wrists.

                As he chews, Corvo begins to strategize. If there’s one thing to be thankful for in this time of plague, it is that the rats are so ubiquitous, he won’t have to search for one at all. What he must decide is when to move, and where he should go. The rats can clearly get _into_ the prison somehow, but can Corvo find their entry point before the magic wanes and he is forced to revert forms? Or worse; if he does find it, can he get all the way _through_ it in time?

                He could just go through pathways he knows will take him outside. He hadn’t been inside Coldridge very much during his service as Lord Protector, but he knows there are two electronically sealed doors separating the prison yard from the Wrenhaven River. The first is operated by a switch, he knows, but he isn’t sure of the second. He might get himself into more dire straits, and lose himself his only chance at escape.

                Swallowing, and scowling at the scrape down his throat, Corvo’s eyes turn to the window to the execution yard. That’s open-air. The only trouble would be getting a rat up to the sill. Maybe he could move his bed and make a ramp? However, shifting questioningly proves this ineffective. The bed seems to be bolted into the floor, and the scant prison bedclothes and pillow are nowhere near enough to build a mound, certainly not one _he_ could climb, what with the difficulties he has walking on four feet anyway.

                He looks down at the remnants of bread in his hands. He could catch a rat and hold it on the windowsill until he could possess it. It’s risky, though; one bite is all it takes to catch the plague, and prison rations of preventative certainly wouldn’t be enough to save him. Glancing down at his pillow and the item hidden beneath, another question arises. How will he carry the heart? His journey through the Void proved that his clothing, at least, comes with him through a possession, but will an object?

                He’ll have to risk it. The Outsider would not give such a significant gift lightly. Corvo will just have to have faith, and trust that _that_ part of his plan would succeed.

                The other question is when. He’s not familiar enough with the rotations to plan around guard shifts. He should probably aim for a night escape, though. His newly purchased Dark Vision should grant him an advantage in that respect. If he can get into the sewers, he’d be essentially home free. How would they ever catch one rat among the swarm?

                Another problem occurs to him as he remembers the exhaustion headache. He has to remember he doesn’t have unlimited chances at this. Unless he can get his hands on more of the blue remedy, he won’t be able to do much more than leave his cell before the magic exhaustion kicks in.

                But he doesn’t have a choice. It’s either this long-shot or death, and he owes it to Emily to bring down the men who murdered her mother. He _has_ to try.

                Now that he’s decided, there’s no real point in waiting. A glance through his window tells him that the sun will be setting soon; he’ll have more than enough time to catch himself a rat with the last of his bread. Breaking it to bits between his hands, he scatters the crumbs beside his bed, pulling his bare feet off of the floor and easing back against the wall to wait. He slides the heart out from under his pillow, holding it loosely at the ready.

                The rats do not disappoint him. Four of them come into the cell at once, squabbling with each other over the food. It is the easiest thing in the world to reach down and pluck one from the fray, his fingers secure around the struggling rodent’s ribcage.

                Quickly, he strides to the window, pressing the rat down flat to the stone sill.  The chill outside air assaults him, blowing his hair from his face and coaxing goosebumps from his skin. He shifts the heart to pin it to his side with his elbow, grimacing, remembering that he hadn’t considered the cold, either. The rat’s struggles go particularly violent, and he reminds himself that he doesn’t have the luxury of another option. Centering himself again, he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.

                The magic flows just as easily here as it did in the Void, and with a gust of wind and a burst of sound, he is a brown rat, looking out over the execution block. Aware that his time is extremely limited, he peers downward, taking in the suddenly much-more-dramatic drop to the soil below. Bracing himself, he jumps, his back legs flailing through the air. The landing forces a rather pained squeak from his throat and steals his breath, but he has no time to stop. He scrabbles forward, sliding underneath the raised viewing platform and into a deeper empty space beyond. He can’t change back here, though, because he would trap himself more thoroughly than he had been in his cell. He presses onward, sticking his head out from beneath the planks, marking the distance to the execution platform itself. Unlike his current hiding spot, there is plenty of room for a human to crouch beneath it, and good thing too; as he makes the dash across the open space, his vision begins to tunnel and smear, and he barely makes it into the shadows before he is gasping and bursting back into his original shape.

                He hits his head on a crossbeam as he shifts, and he muffles a curse. His ears are ringing, and that’s the last thing he needs right now. He goes still, regulating his breathing, trying to banish the noise. All at once, the heart beats to life, dropping to the ground in front of him. It’s pulsing quite wildly, and the light within is very bright. When Corvo picks it up and tilts it to examine it more closely, it slows and dims.

                Wondering, Corvo angles his head, trying to pinpoint the ringing. As he suspected, moving the heart toward the noise speeds its thumping. Crawling on hand and knees, heart held like a guide, he finds a bit of metal sticking up from a pile of dirt. Clearing away the dust reveals a three-pronged charm of bone, carved on two sides with black glyphs. The dark aura here is much less apparent than the miasma around the rune had been, but it is still present.

                Again, the knowledge comes to him as if he has always known it; bone charms grant small, constant magical effects, drawing directly from his energy. He can only wear so many before they begin to overwhelm him, so he must choose his charms wisely.

                Bone charms, too, require his blood to bind to his power.

                For once thankful for his treatment at the hands of the Royal Interrogator, he twists, swiping his hand across the wounds he re-opened upon his sharp awakening. His fingers come away stained with red, and he smears this onto the bone, paying special attention to the glyphs. The charm seems to shudder and the ringing silences, replaced by a silent sense of warmth.

                The heart begins to whisper in his mind, unbidden. ‘ _The Void surges from within, protecting its own from the fatigue of body and mind._ ’ It falls silent, offering no more explanation for its words.

                Unsure of how else to react, Corvo slots the charm onto the waistband of his prison pants, the only place he could possibly keep track of such a small and such an important object.

                Corvo approaches the edge of the execution platform, shifting the heart to his other hand to free up his magic. Calling upon the Dark Vision, he scans his surroundings. No yellow bodies glow near him, so he slips out into the open, still crouched low to the ground. Moving quickly, he goes up the stairs onto the perimeter wall, following along the inside edge until he can reach higher ground. As he goes to pull himself atop a pillar between rolls of barbed wire, his Vision blinks back into color. So this magic isn’t infinite, either, he muses, clutching the heart to his chest.

                He reactivates his Dark Vision, preparing to slide down the wall to the rocky cliff below, when a voice calls out, “Hey!” Corvo looks over his shoulder to see a guard standing at the prison’s entrance to the yard, a look of horror on his face. “Stop right there!” he shouts, scrambling for his sword and nearly fumbling it in his haste.

                Corvo suddenly has a lot less time to work with. He eyeballs the jump down to the canal below, briefly wondering about height and depth and the cold on his skin, before he throws his hesitance away, launching himself from the pillar into the air, aiming for the water feet first.

                As he splashes under, he has to fight the urge to gasp, the cold snatching the breath from his lungs. He pulls himself to the top of the water, letting himself take great gulps of air. Before he slides under again, he hears the beginning of more shouts and the slow whine of a starting alarm. Holding the heart in his hand is slowing his swimming considerably, as are the manacles, but he presses on. When he rises for another breath, he risks a glance over his shoulder. Guards are swarming over the drawbridge, shouting and waving their swords. Corvo hastily ducks back under as an elder watchman draws his pistol, hurrying away from bullet range as quickly as he can.  
                The water rapidly grows shallow and he pulls himself to his feet, scrambling up the mossy rocks. The air is so cold on his skin, and his pants are clinging to his legs. As soon as he gets his bearings, he steps into the shadow of the overhanging cliff, searching for the glint of metal that should mark the entrance to the sewer. There – a span of rust and chipping paint.

                Gunshots ring out behind him, but none of the guards were assigned to Coldridge for their accuracy; bullets pepper the water, none coming close to even his rock shelf. Corvo takes the luck for the gift it is, running forward and moving toward the sewer entrance. A steel door bars his path, and for a moment he panics, wondering if this is the end of his escape, but it swings open easily, beckoning him into the dim and damp space beyond.

                Corvo slips inside, sealing the door behind him and turning the clearly visible deadbolt with a satisfying click. That won’t hold the guards for very long at all, he knows, but it might give him a few more minutes head start.

                He’s never really been in the sewer system before, and he can’t say that he has been missing out. The pipes overhead are rusting around the edges, in some places spilling fine streams of water down onto the brick. Graffiti covers the walls, written over signs and scribbled with frantic hands. As Corvo picks his way forward, dodging water and carefully stepping over piles of bricks and worse, a rat goes rushing past, fur gleaming in the light.

                He soon comes to a barred metal door, and it does not open when he pulls it. He frowns, turning the heart over and over in his right hand. He could find a rat, slip through that way. But he doesn’t want to waste his magic this early if he needs it more urgently later on. A pile of supply crates catches his eye, and he follows the crude staircase with his eyes up to the wide pipes near the ceiling.

                Climbing seems to remind his body of the beating it has taken, and he has to grit his teeth as the pain sears. The heart and his handcuffs are quite a hindrance, and it takes him an inordinately long time to pull himself atop the metal bars. His skin is still slippery from the canal, and with a wry twist of his mouth, he considers it might even be a blessing that he doesn’t have his normal clothes; he would have been even more waterlogged and freezing than he is now.

                The crawlspace near the ceiling narrows, and he has to move to his hands and knees, so, so careful to not scrape his raw back across the bricks. As he rounds a corner, one pipe hisses and leaks steam, and he has to do his best to edge around it, the heat a shock to his frozen body.

                Thankfully, he can soon drop back to the sewer floor, his knees and back protesting as he unbends himself. He follows a stairway down and crosses some overgrown rocks and reeds, and finally enters the sewer proper. He can see quite well without the aid of his Dark Vision, the bright floodlights half-heartedly set in the corners to frighten away the rats completely functional. The rats, seeming to mock their effectiveness, climb over one another around their bases, sniffing curiously at the electrical cording. Unfortunately, this part of the sewer is walled off with iron bars and metal quarantine doors. The only way onward is through the canal itself, which is filled with dark, murky water.

                Corvo thinks of infection and disease and worries about the open wounds on his skin, but he has little choice. He slips into the water, kicking powerfully and propelling himself as quickly as he can. He swims under an archway and rises to the surface on the other side, where thankfully the concrete walkways resume. He pulls himself from the water, grimacing and doing his best to wipe it from his face.

                He looks up and is greeted by the sight of two corpses, a man and a woman, embracing each other in death. Corvo eyes the man’s clothes, wondering if they would fit him. His jacket looks warm. He approaches, gently pulling the dead woman out of the man’s arms, making her head loll back. The sight makes him flinch and he recoils, dropping her abruptly. Her face is streaked with blood, trailing down her cheeks like tears.

                They are weepers. Corvo hurries away, all thought of changing his clothes gone. Infected wounds he might be able to endure and survive, but the plague is another matter entirely.

                He continues onward and upstairs to a large crank-operated door. Another corpse is leaning against the workings, and as quickly as he can, he shifts the dead man out of the way, turning the wheel. It clicks into place once the door is opened, and he moves onward, the heart silent and still in his hand. He comes to a large and cavernous room, crisscrossed with pipes. Another crank-operated door is on the other side, but now there is a new obstacle in his way.

                The swarm of rats writhes and seethes, feeding feverishly on something red and wet. Corvo has seen rats like these strip a man of skin in minutes, and he shivers. He has to have time to get the door open, so he’ll need something to distract them. The thought occurs to him and prompts a sick lurch in his gut, but he backtracks, returning to the corpse that had blocked the wheel. The man was skin and bones before he died, and it is only for this reason that Corvo can lift him, cradled in his arms awkwardly due to the handcuffs. Muttering apologies to this man’s spirit, Corvo rolls his body out into the open, well away from the wheel he needs to turn.

                The rats’ attention shifts immediately, appearing much more satisfied with this new offering of flesh than the old gristle they had been attacking. While they are occupied, Corvo slips past as quickly as he can, wrenching the crank and sliding through the door as soon as he can clear it.

                The room beyond is gently sloped, bringing the central canal from stagnant pools into a slowly flowing stream. Corvo brushes past vegetation, heading toward the crackling of a fire tucked into a corner. Its owner is nowhere to be seen, but a few rats on skewers are roasting over the flames. Corvo leaves them be; he’ll have more time for food when he’s not actively escaping.

                The fire is a blessed and unexpected boon. He raises his hands and tries to rub them back into warmth, feeling the heat begin to return to his skin. After he can reliably feel his fingers again, Corvo twists as far as his body and cuffs will allow, wringing some of the filthy water from his hair. It clings to his face and neck uncomfortably, but he doesn’t have time to dry it more thoroughly.

                He looks around for the way forward, and he groans in frustration. The only way onward is a sheer cliff, parallel to a length of chain hanging from the ceiling. Even if his frail body _could_ climb it, how in the Void is he to carry the heart?

                There is a whisper just off to his left, and the faintest rush of wind. After a brief moment of stillness and surprise, Corvo turns to follow it, and his eyes light upon a small messenger bag, left innocently atop a slab. He picks it up, testing the strength of the cloth, peering inside to find a scant handful of coins. This would work, if he could slide it over his shoulder. He thinks of his cuffed hands and scowls. He’ll have to let the strap hang awkwardly around the back of his neck until he can find a way to free his arms.

                As he tucks the heart into the bag and buckles it shut, he looks up, the firelight dancing behind him and stretching his shadow into something huge and monstrous. Scrawled on the wall in hand-high letters is the message “ _The Outsider walks among us_ ” and he shivers and nods, muttering a quick thanks.

                Now he faces the chain and the sheer climb. Bracing himself, he pulls his body up, walking his feet along the wall as he ascends, hand over hand. It is just as much pain as he feared, his back screaming, his muscles burning, his limbs shaking. But he can’t stop, and he pulls himself upward and onward, toes finding purchase in metal scaffolding and wooden boards.

                When he pulls himself over the top, he groans in relief, letting himself pant and gasp at the exertion. This section of the sewers is well lit, and comparatively cleaned out. People must have been trying to live down here to escape the City Watch. At least it will make his progress easier.

                He finds spools of copper wiring tucked neatly among coins on a shelf, and he takes both, thinking he might be able to use them later. When he approaches the stairs, he is blocked by one of the most blatant tripwires he has ever seen. A quick scan of his surroundings reveals the copper projectile launcher atop a pipe, some sort of bolt loaded and ready. He knows he can’t climb over this wire without activating it, so he looks around, searching for an alternate path.

                A second obvious tripwire also bars a side tunnel, but this one is set so high he can easily stoop under it. At the end of this passage is a small metal crate, piled with coins and a single vial of red liquid. Corvo’s eyes widen, recognizing the full dose of Sokolov’s Health Elixir. At once, he is uncapping it and draining it, feeling a little of the strength returning to his limbs and a bit of the pain easing in his wounds. On this dose of preventative alone, he might just make it through the sewers _without_ catching the plague at the end of it.

                Over his head is a metal walkway, and he climbs onto the crate and up onto the walkway itself, trying to see if this will give him an alternate route past the first tripwire. It doesn’t, but it _does_ lead him to the projectile launcher. It is the easiest thing in the world to pull the bolts from the slot, rendering the machine inert and therefore safe.

                He backtracks and passes the tripwire harmlessly, continuing around a corner. He comes to another floodlight, and lying against a wall nearby are two men, apparently freshly dead. Corvo studies their faces, and finding them free of bloody tears, he reconsiders his clothing situation. The one man looks about his size, and he has a belt in case adjustments are needed. Corvo wouldn’t be able to wear a shirt or jacket with his hands still cuffed, he realizes with dismay, but real pants and shoes would be greatly appreciated. Decided, he strips the man of his pants and belt, taking the boots from his friend when his shoes are revealed to be too small. Corvo also takes the man’s shirt, crumpling it and squeezing it into his bag beside the heart, for the time when he _does_ manage to free himself.

                He moves through the door into the next area, already feeling a bit more like himself in dry clothes and shoes, the bone charm humming quietly on his new belt. He ducks another trip wire, and comes to a large safe overturned on its side. He is about to dismiss it when a note catches his eye.

                _Jelly,_

_In case you’re too daft to remember, look to your whiskey for the answer. Whiskey. Got it?_

_If you want your share, you’ll sort it out. If not, I’ll come back for it next month._

                It appears Jelly hadn’t sorted it out, for there is a large hammer sitting atop the somewhat-dented safe, which is still locked tight. Corvo glances around, seeing a shelf laden with whiskey bottles. Feeling somehow like he is being tricked, he studies a bottle, lifting it from the shelf. Behind it, a chalked-in message reads _451_.

                It can’t be that easy, can it?

                He enters the code into the safe and the mechanism whirs, releasing the lock and swinging the door open. Inside are several books, what looks like a jewelry box, and another dose of elixir. He takes the last and puts it in his bag, leaving the rest behind. He simply doesn’t have the room to carry very much, no matter how valuable the things he must leave behind.

                He climbs over a low brick wall, finding yet another vial of health elixir atop a cabinet, which he takes. The only way onward he can see is a fall onto spire of rock, and so he drops down.

                Voices suddenly ring out in front of him, and he tenses, listening.

                “He won’t get past me, sir,” a guard promises, standing straight and tall at the end of the pathway Corvo needs to follow.

                The other man, apparently a higher-ranking guard, scoffs, and replies, “Do you know who we’re hunting here? Don’t try to take him on alone.”

                Petulantly, the younger guard asks, “Well, what if nobody from the squad is around?”

                “Then try to make a lot of noise when you die.” The guard gestures dismissively, turning to return to his position. “Knock something over if you can.”

                As soon as his commander walks away, the young guard mutters, “Bastard.”

                Corvo hesitates atop the rock, considering. He might be able to sneak past _some_ of the guards, but he doesn’t think he can fool them all. Without a weapon and with his hands bound, the fight that would ensue would surely end in his death. There is the sewage canal he could use, but he doesn’t really want to expose himself to infection again.

                The young guard approaches the rock, eyes toward the ground, and he misses Corvo entirely. He leans against a railing, muttering under his breath. Acting impulsively, Corvo drops lightly to the ground behind him, getting an arm around his neck and squeezing. The guard struggles, pulling against his bicep, but Corvo covers his mouth with his other hand, and the remaining guards do not notice. After a time, the man passes out, and Corvo lowers him gently to the ground, eyes wide and scanning the area around him.

                That’s one. Can he slip past the rest?

                He follows along a wall, hands spread as wide as he can make them to prevent the chain from clinking. A rock ledge at about chest height looms before him, and he pulls himself up, cursing every brush of fabric against the rock as too loud. A pipe leads him onward, and he follows it, walking above the heads of the patrolling guards. He drops lightly to the floor when the pipe curves, clinging to the walls and hoping the darkness will be enough. He comes to a floodlight in a partially collapsed section of tunnel, and he hurries past, hoping the men will not notice his shadow.

                Then he is coming to the open air, the pathway of a tramcar crackling over his head. He hears the notes signifying an announcement, and he stops to listen. “Attention Dunwall citizens,” the announcer states, “the assassin Corvo, responsible for the murder of our fair Empress and the disappearance of Lady Emily, heir to the throne, has temporarily escaped state custody. Any evidence as to his whereabouts must be delivered to the City Watch at once.”

                Corvo swears under his breath. He had hoped he would have a little more time before the Lord Regent would broadcast his escape. He’ll have to be even more cautious. He follows the pathway, stepping over shrouded corpses of plague victims, eventually coming to the shore of the Wrenhaven.

                Now is when things get complicated. Corvo crouches in the reeds, watching a whaling boat move smoothly down the river, its captive singing mournfully, high in the scaffolding. Dunwall Tower is a looming shadow overhead, and he can still hear the alarms in Coldridge, echoing loudly over the water. He has to move, but where can he go? He needs a place to hide, both from the City Watch and the rats, and he needs to get these cuffs off. He’s also going to need food and warmth and elixir, if he doesn’t want his campaign for Emily to end before it can begin.

                “Have we checked this way?” a voice calls somewhere down the tunnel behind him, and he jumps, startled. He can’t stay here. Glancing down into the water, he spies several blue jawed hagfish weaving through shafts of fading sunlight. Hopefully he can make it to the other bank before he reverts; he doesn’t want to ruin his clothes unless he has to.

                The magic courses smooth and easy, and a hagfish breaks from the school, heading for the deeper center of the river. The whaling ship passes overhead, a huge shadow eclipsing the sun and plunging the water into darkness and cold. Corvo pays it no heed, swimming with all of his might toward the opposite shore. He knows the current is pushing him somewhat downstream, but he doesn’t fight it, resolving to figure out where he is when he’s on two feet again.

                His spate of good luck runs out and he feels himself flex and warp, and suddenly he is human shaped, plunged into icy water and brushing aside the body of the dead hagfish. He would sigh, if he weren’t focused on swimming. He’ll have to find more clothes, and soon, and something to warm himself up. At least it’s just water he’s swimming through this time, polluted though it may be from heavy river traffic.

                After what seems to be an inordinately long time, he pulls himself onto the southern bank, the knees of his pants sinking into the river mud. He pulls the sodden shirt from his bag, leaving it behind. It would only weigh him down as it is.

                Corvo follows the line of the river, pressed into the shadows by the floodwall. The setting sun reflects over the water in front of him, shining right into his eyes. He squints, considering. Kaldwin’s Bridge is a dark shape on the horizon, speckled even from this distance with the glare of the spotlights. That should put him about even with the Old Port District, or maybe the Financial District. Probably the Port District, because last he heard, the Financial District had flooded, and the wall at his left side is reassuringly steady.  The Port District is supposedly evacuated, one of the later places the plague had really decimated. He might be able to hide here, for a while.

                He looks over his shoulder at the shape of Dunwall Tower and Coldridge prison, still distressingly close, then to the gutted buildings of the Port District, all lights extinguished and dead.

                Mind made up, he walks toward the vague outlines of the collapsed docks. They should let him get past the floodwall and into the district proper. Sure enough, one of the cargo checking stations has a wide-open door, giving him passage not only through the floodwall, but through the hastily-erected quarantine wall as well. Corvo walks inside, squelching river water over the tile floor.

                The streets beyond the quarantine wall are completely empty, not even populated with the shrouded plague victims he has grown accustomed to seeing. Corvo does not relax, though, skirting the edges of buildings and sidling through alleyways. A sound makes him startle, and he calls upon the Dark Vision reflexively, but it is just a rat, knocking over an aged tin of brined hagfish.

                The washed-out colors of Dark Vision are much brighter that what light the setting sun can provide, so he routinely casts it as soon as the first magic fades. It is only after the third time he does this that he remembers the exhaustion headache he had felt in the Void. He has used much more magic here, but his head feels perfectly clear. Corvo frowns. He had thought he had begun to understand the rules of the Outsider’s power.

                The heart, still tucked away in his bag, whispers into his mind. ‘ _The Void protects its own._ ’ The bone charm on his hip hums, still pressing into his skin with unusual warmth. Corvo doesn’t understand, but he chooses to accept it, appreciating all the help he can get.

                He turns a corner and spies a dumpster just beneath a balcony, and he decides this place is as good as any other. He climbs onto the lid of the trash bin, then up to the second floor, scanning the area with Dark Vision and finding it completely clear of the yellow glow of life.

                The apartment he has chosen is rather small, and the only door to the stairwell is covered over with multiple wooden boards. Much of the furniture has been pushed up against the walls or removed entirely, leaving a large open space in the center of the room. The sink, when he tries it, still functions, though the water is rather green in color. He’ll have to boil it before drinking it.

                A slight hindrance to this plan is the fact that the stove, and any other device he tries, does not function, the power apparently cut. Corvo shrugs. He can build a fire, if he needs to. He hopes he’s far enough away from the river that the light won’t give away his position.

                The mattress in the bedroom has no bedding, but that is of no consequence. Corvo’s attention focuses instead on the dresser in the corner, acutely aware of the way his borrowed pants are clinging to his legs with freezing water. There’s not much clothing in the drawers at all, apparently having gone with the apartment’s former occupants when they left, but he does find a dry pair of pants. They are much too big for his prison-starved frame, but once his belt dries, they will serve him well enough.

                The shoes are another question altogether. The ones he is wearing fit his feet reasonably well, but they are completely soaked through from his time in the river. He doubts they will dry even if he leaves them on the windowsill overnight. He sighs, deciding he will address that problem tomorrow as he plans his next move. For now, he is exhausted, both from the hour of night and from his frenzied flight from the prison. His limbs and wounds ache in equal measure, and the mattress beckons him, promising better warmth and rest than he ever could have gotten in his concrete and metal cell.

                He strips out of his sodden trousers, pulling on the fresh pair. He lays his bag with the heart, the copper wiring, and the two doses of elixir next to the bed, resting the bone charm on top. It seems to buzz reassuringly at him, the thinnest curling of dark power rising from its surface.

                Corvo eases down onto the mattress, sighing as he takes some of the stress off of his fatigued body. The day feels surreal, and he still doesn’t quite believe it. Some part of him wonders if he will wake up in Coldridge again, one day closer to his death.

                The Mark hums on the back of his hand, and he curls his fingers.

                Tomorrow, he will begin his search for Emily, and for the men that have torn the Empire apart. He’s not helpless any longer. He can fix things, save one of the only people he’s ever cared about, and maybe make the world just a little more right and just in the process.

                Corvo slips into sleep, feeling closer to peace than he has in months.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured a double-update for the first posting was in order. :P Gonna aim for a chapter a week, excluding unexpected real-life drama.

                When he wakes, it is unhurried in a manner he hasn’t been able to afford for long, long months. A smile touches his face, and he pulls into a stretch, careful of his back. The illusion of comfort is shattered when the handcuffs pull tight, cutting into the skin of his wrists.

                Good mood ruined, Corvo sits up, rubbing his wrists best he can around the metal. The fact that he has slept through the night reassures him for the moment, but he’ll have to move again soon. With a growl, his stomach reminds him of his need for food, as well.

                The kitchen, when he searches it, is rather depressingly empty. He finds a tin of whale meat, as of yet unblemished and not bloated, and he thinks if he can cook it, it would be fine to eat. In a cabinet adjacent to the sink, he finds two frying pans, still mostly untouched by any rust or discoloration. He remembers his decision to boil any water he would drink, and he eyes the larger pan speculatively. It’s not very deep, but it should hold enough to serve his needs for now.

                For both the food and the water, he will need a fire. He remembers enough from his childhood in Serkonos that he is confident he could get one going, if he has the proper materials. He laments for a moment that Gristol is so much more humid than his homeland, that the near-constant rains soak through anything exposed and leave it soggy and disgusting.

                He eyes the planks blocking the door to the stairwell, considering. They look rather thin, and he could probably break them down into kindling. He tests the heft of a frying pan in his hand, judging it sufficient for his purposes.

                The first blow against the old wood is extremely satisfying, the shock reverberating down his arms. The wood splinters loudly, sending down a tiny rain of slivers and chips. A second blow sends the whole blockade into collapse, clattering down to the floor.

                Out of a lingering sense of paranoia, Corvo activates his Dark Vision, checking his immediate surroundings for any sign of life. There are a couple of rats somewhere on the lower floor, but there are still no human shapes. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, the frying pan dropping to his side.

                Corvo begins the process of sorting appropriate kindling from the wood, bringing the pile into the center of the room. The place will fill up with smoke rather quickly, despite the wide-open windows, but maybe keeping the smoke contained will help disguise his location long enough for a meal.

                Actually getting the fire to start is going to be the hardest part; this whole thing would be so much easier if he had some whale oil, or some flint. He glances at the defunct stove, the barest hint of an idea forming. It is incredibly easy to tear apart the covering over the burners, revealing the mechanism inside. As he had hoped, this particular model of stove starts itself by striking two bits of metal or mineral or something over a channel for the gas. He sets to gathering these little metal bits from all of the burners, each barely half the size of a coin.

                He returns to his pile of fire starter, setting most of the metal chips aside and choosing two that look the least-used. He doesn’t have a great range of motion with his hands bound, but he can strike one against the other with enough force to generate a spark, and that’s all he needs. It takes several tries, but eventually a spark feebly catches, and he crouches low to the floor, trying to breathe the fire into life. Finally a smolder becomes a tiny flame, and he slowly feeds larger and larger pieces of wood to it until he is sure it will survive without his direct attention.

                It takes a bit of arranging, but he manages to balance one of the frying pans in the flames, curls of red fire lapping around its edges. Corvo tears off the lid of the whale meat, breaking the seal inside. To his relief, the meat doesn’t seem spoiled, preserved too thoroughly in brine and chemicals. He tips the contents of the tin into the pan, squishing it out of its canned shape into something more evenly distributed.

                Now all he has to do is wait and stoke the fire. He gets to his feet, retrieving the messenger bag. His belt is reasonably dry, and brings his borrowed pants much closer to something comfortable. He clips the bone charm on his hip, feeling somehow soothed by its inner warmth.

                As an afterthought, he pulls several more articles of clothing from the dresser, preparing to offer them to the fire. They won’t burn for long, but they will burn _well_ , and they might just save him from having to set another spark if the fire flickers and dies.

                He picks up his boots, too. They are still wet against his fingers, and he grimaces. He can only put them near the fire and hope for the best until he comes across another pair.

                Corvo sits back near the fire, feeding some sort of scarf to the flames immediately. It burns as well as he suspected, and he pulls one of the larger fragments of wood over to the flame, too. The warmth is wonderful on his tired body, and he realizes just how cold he had been only now that he is warming up again.

                Now he has reached the point where he has little to do but wait, so he settles in, deciding to formulate his plan. His highest priority is to rescue Emily, that much is a given. But, he realizes with a feeling extremely close to guilt, he has no idea where she might be. He’ll have to find information about her, first. But where?

                He knows that the Spymaster Hiram Burrows, now Lord Regent, and High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell were in on the plot to murder Jessamine, perhaps he could start there? The thought of breaking into Dunwall Tower – past the very security protocols _he_ designed – in his current condition is rather laughable. Even with his magic, his body is still too weak to really cope with any kind of labor. The damn handcuffs and his complete lack of a weapon also render him rather helpless, and he’s not so confident in his stealth to think he can get into and out of the seat of the power of the Empire without getting into a fight with at least _one_ guard.

                So he can’t touch Burrows. But can he reach Campbell?

                Corvo has been down Clavering Boulevard many times over the years, but very rarely has he needed to go to Holger Square, let alone the Office of the High Overseer. He nudges the whale meat around in the pan, thinking. Six months ago, before he lost all contact with the dealings of the city, the Warfare Overseers were marching onto the streets, preaching that the plague was a result of the corruption of the people, mercilessly hunting down any ‘heretics’ or ‘witches’ they might come across.

                With a guilty start, Corvo realizes that _he_ has become a heretic, now. He looks at his Marked hand, feeling the power brush just beneath his skin. It hadn’t even occurred to him until just now. It adds another level to the danger around him; he has heard of men and women executed for simple possession of occult artifacts. What would the Overseers do to him, if they discovered he held some of the Outsider’s power, that he could _use_ it?

                The whale meat looks about done, and he shifts the pan out of the flames, placing it a little ways to the side to cool to a temperature he can stand. He stokes the fire a little higher, dropping a more stable platform of wood atop the simmering coals. He stands, holding the other frying pan in his hand, and he coughs at the sudden onslaught of smoke. With stinging eyes, he approaches the sink, filling the pan with a layer of greenish water. Moving as quickly and as carefully as he can, he returns to the fire, setting the pan in place.

                The air is mercifully clearer as he sits down again, but he still coughs, throat stinging. Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, he retrieves a vial of elixir from his bag, popping the cap. He’ll have to take some today anyway, and it might just soothe a little of the ache. It still tastes absolutely terrible as he drinks it, some combination of what tastes like ash and salt and herbs.

                He’ll have to go for Campbell, Corvo decides, setting down the empty elixir vial on the floor beside the fire-starting chips. Burrows is too well protected, and he might not even give Corvo the information he needs if he manages to confront him. Campbell is much more prone to bragging, and Corvo thinks he can twist the situation into making the High Overseer reveal what he needs.

                He takes the cap from the elixir vial and uses it like a crude spoon, scooping the hot whale meat toward him. It’s still _almost_ too hot, but the taste is so good he can’t stop; he can’t remember the last time he had meat like this. Even before his imprisonment, he had been on a journey around the Isles, and ship cuisine left a lot to be desired. He probably eats too quickly for his underfed stomach, but he just can’t stop himself. Warmth begins to bloom in his body from the inside out, and he breathes out in pleasure, lifting his hands to bask before the flames again.

                Another question he has to consider is how he will travel to Holger Square. He could go by the river, and then through the alleys around and beneath Clavering Boulevard. But he feels exposed out on the water, as if Dunwall Tower itself had eyes to find him, and he would be fighting his way upriver. No, he decides, he’ll have to go by land. He’ll probably have to possess a rat to get through the quarantine wall again, as it is undoubtedly better maintained when the nearby area is actually populated.

                The water on the fire begins to boil as he considers likely paths. He could go straight West, through the Metalworking District and past Kaldwin’s Bridge to the Distillery District, but the thought of passing so near the bright searchlights of the Bridge puts him at unease. He could go further South, passing through the Legal District and bypassing Clavering Boulevard entirely. That might be a better idea; Clavering is such a well-traveled road that it is likely swarming with guards, his recent escape notwithstanding.

                Corvo moves to take the pan of water away from the fire, deeming it sterilized enough, and the cuffs on his wrists pull tight. If he goes through the Metalworking District, he realizes, he can probably find a machine to get these off his hands. The thought is too enticing to ignore; there might not be a better chance to free himself for a long, long time. He revises his path as he stares at the steam rising from the pan, contemplative. If he sticks to the South side of the Metalworking District, he can avoid Kaldwin’s Bridge and therefore the spotlights.

                As he waits for the water to cool, he takes the dirty pan for the whale meat and crosses to the sink. The smoke is just as bad as it was before, and he squints, his mouth curling into a scowl. He fills the pan about halfway and returns to the fire, unceremoniously pouring the water over the still-burning flame. It hisses smoke and steam and goes out, leaving only soggy ashes behind.

                Since he’s decided, he suddenly has nothing to do. He scoops up the fire-starting chips, slipping them into his bag in case he’ll need them later. He doesn’t want to wander the apartment when the smoke is still so thick in the air, so he pulls the heart from his bag, feeling it thrum with power in his left hand. He squeezes it, pointing at nothing in particular, and it whispers, ‘ _Not so long ago, Dunwall was a proud city_.’ Again, and it says, ‘ _The great ships have stopped bringing their hauls_.’

                When he goes to squeeze it a third time, it asks, ‘ _What have they done to me?_ ’ Its voice is tremulous and afraid, and Corvo looks down at it in his hands, deeply unsettled. There has always been something deeply _wrong_ about the heart and its breathless woman’s voice, but the fact that it can refer to itself with apparent coherence tips it over a line into disturbing. He clenches his hand again, something like nausea in his throat.

                As if it had never said an unusual word, it says, ‘ _The Abbey is dark – its doors are locked, and no more the great sermons. The Overseers have taken to the streets._ ’

                Corvo moves to return the heart to his bag, twisting in place, and it beats once, solid and slow. The light within glows just slightly, gears click click clicking sluggishly. There must be a distant rune or bone charm that way. Corvo can’t put the heart away just yet, if that’s the case.

                He places it gently on the floor, passing his hands experimentally above the pan of water. It’s still warm, but no longer boiling. Corvo doesn’t want to risk burning himself on the metal regardless, so he carefully, carefully pours some of the water from the pan into the empty elixir vial. The dregs of elixir flavor the water and make it bitter and unpalatable, but he knows the value of good hydration. Who knows when his next chance at pure water will be?

                He swallows as much as he can, pouring the rest into the vial for later and resealing the cap. He reaches for his shoes, still unfortunately damp on the inside. It’s better than nothing, he decides, pulling them on. He scoops the heart into his left hand, burying his misgivings about it beneath duty and necessity. Now he stands, already feeling better for the food in his belly and with a full dose of Health Elixir dulling his pain. The smoke has cleared somewhat, though his throat still prickles.

                Corvo leaves the apartment the same way he entered it, dropping from the balcony, to the dumpster, to the street. He looks up at the sky and frowns; the smoke is rather visible against the stark clarity, not a cloud to be seen. He’ll have to hurry and move.

                It’s still early in the day, so he puts the sun at his back, heading roughly West. Out of paranoia he feels is justified, he casts Dark Vision, wary of anyone approaching. He’s noticed that Dark Vision doesn’t seem to tire him the same way possession does, and he can basically call it infinitely. It makes him feel a little better about his chances of evading any pursuers that may come to investigate the smoke in the abandoned district.

                He remembers the single throb of the heart, and he brings it more strongly into his grip, looking down at the little plane of glass. Might as well find the rune or bone charm it’s reacting to. Testingly, he moves the heart from side to side, trying to pinpoint the exact direction. It’s a bit of a diversion from his Westward movement, sending him a little further South than he would like, but he figures it’s probably worth it.

                Corvo has to leave the main road, and he slips into an alley, passing an abandoned pile of wooden crates. Now that the sun is spilling its light across the ground, the brown hues of Dark Vision are less of an advantage and more of a hindrance, and he finds himself straining his eyes. Considering that he still sees no humans glowing yellow, he lets the magic fade. He does not relax, for all that the place truly seems to be deserted, and he clings to shadows and walls.

                His first impression that this district was rather clean quickly fades. Now that he’s off the main road, piles of trash seem to sprout up on every corner, some with rats crawling over the mess, looking for food. Here, a vehicle lies abandoned, its doors ripped off and its contents long scattered and discarded.

                The heart directs him upward after a while, indicating some sort of tenement building as the location of the artifact. Ever cautious, he checks behind him with Dark Vision for any pursuers, before turning to face the building. He freezes, as he sees the distinct shape of a man, sitting with his back against some object on the floor above.

                Corvo does not move, pressing himself against a wall, trained on that spot of yellow. Only when the first casting of Dark Vision fades and he must recall it does he begin to approach, hesitant and slowly. The figure has not moved in all this time, and he is beginning to suspect that they are already dead. The lure of a rune or charm is too great to overcome, considering his near-hopeless disadvantages in all aspects other than the supernatural.

                He climbs the stairs of the tenement building, only to find his path blocked by several piled bits of furniture. He peers through a chaotic sea of overturned chairs and looks past the wide wooden planes of wardrobes, and his earlier suspicion is confirmed. The yellow shape he sees is the body of a dead man, curled protectively around something that emits dark Void.

                Tucking the heart back into his bag, Corvo thinks. He could try and breach this barrier, precariously balanced though it may be along the stairs. He could find a rat, work in that way.

                It would probably just be easier to leave the building and search for an alternate exit. That worked well enough for the apartment.

                The balcony he finds does not lead into the room with the dead man, but it does get him on the other side of the haphazard barrier. With a little shifting, he can pull some of the chairs down and set them along the hallway, and he can just barely squeeze through.

                The scene is rather grotesque. With an expression on his decaying face like fury, the dead man hunches forward on himself, a whalebone rune hissing and singing its dark song just beyond his outstretched fingers. Unsettled, Corvo mutters apologies and darts forward, taking the rune into his hand. The power seems to resonate in his bones, and he closes his eyes, feeling goosebumps erupt all over his skin.

                _You could be strong_ , the magic whispers. _You could be whole and healthy, unmarred and unwounded, exactly as you were before_. Corvo thinks of the whip-marks and the burns still wide and weeping, stealing his movement in floods of pain. There’s no question, really; if he has the chance to fix it, he is going to take it.

                Again, the metal edging of the rune splits his skin easily, and again, his blood wells forth, bright and red. The Mark on the rune glows vibrant and gold, and the bone bursts into a cloud of mist, the weight rising from his palm and vanishing.

                Corvo opens his eyes, watching as the magic condenses and constricts, inexorably attracted to the Mark on his left hand. Then he is collapsing onto his hands and knees, a cry tearing itself from his throat. His skin is alive with agony, worse than he has ever felt. He can feel _something_ peeling from the wounds on his back, and it feels horribly like his flesh is tearing itself away from his bones.

                He coughs, a shudder wracking his ribcage, and suddenly the pain just disappears entirely. He remains tensed, waiting for a second wave to catch him and destroy him, but nothing comes. Hesitantly, he stands up, mind whirling.

                His back doesn’t hurt. When he looks down, studying his body, he finds more smooth skin than he expected. Oozing lash marks have not only closed, but vanished entirely, as if they had never been. His burns are gone too, without even the shiny-stretched quality he knows burn scars leave. He feels stronger, too, his starved-away muscle returned. His borrowed belt feels much too tight, and he adjusts it out to a more reasonable distance, somewhat amazed at the actual _substance_ of his body, all coiled strength and smooth lines.

                At once, he is laughing, incredulous, twisting his back and bending forward to touch his toes and raising his arms high over his head, the handcuffs clinking. He can _move_ again.

                Corvo grins down at the decaying corpse, offering a little salute in thanks for the rune. He practically bounces as he leaves the room, and his toes squish into the uncomfortable damp of his shoes, and he wrinkles his nose in discomfort. He’ll have to find more soon; he’s not going to take them from the half-rotted dead, though.

                He’s not far from the quarantine wall separating the Old Port District from the Metalworking District now. There, things will get really complicated, and he’ll probably have to end up fighting to get out alive. But right now, with the strength of his body returned after so long, he feels confident he can handle it.

                Corvo laughs, jumping from the second-story balcony, landing precisely as he wants, no pain or ache anywhere. He breaks into a sprint just because he can, dodging piles of sodden papers, the chains on his handcuffs clanking away and restricting the motion of his arms. He skids into a stop, sliding easily along the slick cobblestones of the street.

                Right now, he feels like he can take on the entire Empire and _win_. His grin is starting to hurt his face, so he laughs again.

                Outsider’s eyes, but he feels good. Then he realizes exactly how _fitting_ the thought is, considering the source of his new recovery. He looks down at the Mark standing out firmly on his skin, and he says, “Thank you,” deep sincerity and joy in his words.

                It’s nice, to have someone on his side after so long.

                A lick of magic hums through his body, as if in response, and Corvo’s grin grows impossibly wider.

                Hiram Burrows won’t know what hit him, he thinks, and the thought is a venomous delight.

                As Corvo continues westward, he distinctly senses the feel of eyes on the back of his neck. Rather than worry as he might have, he stands up a little straighter, his own gaze firmly on his destination. The Outsider said he wanted a show, right?

                Corvo’s going to give him one.

\------

                A little of Corvo’s euphoria fades by the time he reaches the quarantine wall, but by that point his face aches from grinning. The metal barrier is very tall, rising some ten meters above the street. Several corpses, both shrouded and not, litter the ground, their exposed faces streaked with blood. He feels his shoulders tense at the sight, but he has to trust in Sokolov’s Elixir to protect him. There’s nothing else he can do.

                This wall is not as ill-maintained as the one by the river, and there are no convenient gaps to slip through. Since this was one of the first barriers erected, the Lord Regent bent on protecting his precious source of weaponry, it is actually rather efficient at its job, blocking out most of the plague rats. However, the rats have sheer numbers on their side, and Corvo spies a corner of metal siding that his bent just slightly out of shape, leaving a gap wide enough for a rodent to force its way through. Proactively, he crouches, doing his best to exacerbate the damage and broaden the space he will have to work with.

                A quick burst of Dark Vision reveals a couple of rats down a nearby alley. Corvo readjusts the bag around his neck, patting it once to check that the heart and his remaining vial of elixir are in place. Then his hand is flaring with light and he is rushing forward across the space, and he is a rat. He scurries down the cobblestones, nosing at the gap in the wall. The squeeze through is still very tight despite the attempt at widening it, and he feels some of his fur part company with his skin.

                Then he is on the other side, looking down an alleyway nearly packed to bursting with wooden supply crates. He slips between one and a wall, winding his way toward a more open area where he can shift back. The reversion is just as abrupt as it always is, and at once he is crouching in the mouth of the alley, looking out over a wide street. He gives himself a moment to catch his breath, and then he is calling Dark Vision.

                The difference between the abandoned district and this one is readily apparent. All around him in the buildings, glowing yellow shapes move about their business, readying for the day. Corvo is interested to note that these people seem to cast a light from their eyes, showing the direction they are looking. That will help him avoid them, he decides.

                Recasting Dark Vision as soon as it begins to fade, Corvo moves forward, ducking behind dumpsters and the temporary barriers the City Watch have put up. There’s little to no shadow this early in the day, and he remains tense, ready to call on possession at a moment’s notice.

                He comes upon some sort of contained booth or stall or something, with a single member of the City Watch inside. The watchman does not seem very aware of his surroundings, his attention focused on some sort of paper on a shelf.

                Corvo looks around with his Dark Vision. The only human shapes nearby are inside the buildings, and far away from him. If he can take this guard down quietly, no one will notice. He creeps forward, the chain spread taut and silent between his hands. With careful, careful steps he climbs into the guard station, and he bursts into motion, clamping his arm around the guard’s neck and cutting off his breathing. The guard chokes and thrashes, but he has no breath to cry out for help, and he falls into unconsciousness nearly silently. Corvo lowers him to the floor of the station gently, eyeing the drop of several inches to the street. The rats probably won’t get him while he’s knocked out, if he’s in here.

                The paper the guard was studying catches Corvo’s eye. Curiously, he creeps forward, reading it himself.

                _Samson, my friend,_

_I know you’re busy, but could you pass a message along to the Abbey? One of the boys found some kind of carved bone, and we think it’s black magic. None of us wants to touch it, so we put_ _it in a storeroom in Workhouse B. Tell the Abbey man that he can take the thing far away, as long as they make sure there’s nothing else touched with the Outsider’s taint.  Some of the men are starting to whisper, and frankly, I’m getting worried._

_Thankfully yours,_

_Jean Ashworth, Artificer-In-Chief_

                Well, that seems as good a place to start as any.

                Corvo pulls the heart from his bag, stepping over the legs of the fallen man and returning to his place in the meager shadows. The heart is solid in his palm, beating softly. He follows its light as best as he can while still staying out of sight. He sees a stack of crates up against a wall, and he quickly and easily climbs to the rooftops, grateful for the extra distance from the guards.

                There seems to be several points of resonance for the heart, so Corvo picks the one that’s most in line with his current rooftop pathway. More glowing figures are moving about in the building below him, so he watches carefully where his feet fall, doing his best to move quietly.

                The road makes a turn, shifting the roofs beneath his feet from a rectangle into an L. He almost slips crossing the transition, the sudden change in the slant of the roof reacting poorly with the unfamiliar tread of his boots. He catches himself, but not without sending a scattering of roof tiles raining down into the street below. He’s only lucky a guard wasn’t nearby, he thinks, hurrying to leave the scene.

                Eventually, the pulse of the heart becomes manic, seeming to direct him straight into the building below his feet. There’s a person inside, but they are horizontal and no cone of light extends from their eyes; are they asleep, or dead? But Corvo needs the artifact, no matter the circumstances, and he tucks the heart back into his bag, looking over the edge of the roof. There’s a little balcony here, too, leading to large double doors. Corvo can only hope they are unlocked; but then again, how many people worry about burglars two stories up?

                He swings down around the corner of the roof, wincing when the soles of his boots thud against the concrete. He knows intellectually that it hadn’t been that loud, or that unusual a sound, but in his current state of awareness, his every noise seems like a screaming proclamation of his presence.

                The balcony doors are indeed unlocked, and he slips inside, keeping one eye on that yellow form. It’s beyond a wall, in the opposite direction from where the heart is urging him, so he’s not completely concerned.

                The heart leads him to a large safe tucked into a closet. He scowls at it, eyeing the lock sealed with a combination that he most certainly doesn’t have. He can only hope the code is written down somewhere in the apartment, or he’ll have to pass this magic by.

                He begins his search in the study area, rifling through the papers on and in the desk as quickly and quietly as he can. There’s nothing that immediately catches his eye, just formal letters marking promotions in the metalworks and a few legal documents. He’s about to give up when a scrap of paper used as a bookmark in a copy of The Sayings of the Overseer slips out of place. When he goes to put it back, the only words written on it are “ _last day of Rain_.”

                Might as well try it, he decides.

                Corvo returns to the safe, spinning the locks to the numbers 283. Nothing happens. Rather than get discouraged, he turns them instead to 328, and to his pleasant surprise, the safe whirs and clicks open. Inside is a quietly humming bone charm, a pile of coins of ten, and two vials of plague preventative, one red and one blue. Corvo feels himself smile at the sight of the Spiritual Remedy; that will give him a lot more freedom with his magic.

                Corvo sweeps the elixirs and the money into his bag, saving the bone charm for last. He picks this up near reverently, sliding his fingers through the dark miasma it emits. He’s going to need blood for this, but he doesn’t have a readily available blade or anything. Maybe in the kitchen?

                He holds the charm loosely in his hands, casting Dark Vision to check on the other occupant of this apartment. He nearly drops it in surprise as the figure is no longer horizontal, instead apparently quite well, and walking around a corner towards him.

                Corvo nudges the safe shut, instinctively dropping low and backing away into a corner. The figure continues to approach, cone of light sweeping the floor as they look down and rub the back of their neck. They seem to be heading right this way, and Corvo looks around wildly for an alternate escape route. There is a window behind him, but it is shut. Can he get the latch open in time? He fumbles for it, holding the bone charm to his palm with three fingers.

                The latch clicks open and the window slides up moments before the figure enters the room. Corvo nearly throws himself outside, dropping onto an exterior vent shaft and following it hurriedly around a corner. He’ll have to move quite quickly if he doesn’t want the owner of the safe he just ransacked to catch him.

                He tucks the bone charm into his bag for later, retrieving the heart. There are two more artifacts to find, and one is much closer than the other. It involves crossing the street, but this isn’t the main road, and he’s relatively sure he can make it without being seen. If worse comes to worse, he can find a rat, now that he has the dose of Spiritual Remedy.

                Corvo drops down into an alley between apartments, hiding himself behind a dumpster. His Dark Vision reveals two guards patrolling down the street he needs to cross, one near a place where the street widens into a rudimentary town square, and the other uncomfortably near Corvo’s hiding place. Corvo eyes the distant guard, wondering how long it would take him to turn away from the square. Acting quickly, Corvo darts forward, catching the second guard around the neck and dragging her backward even as he strangles her. She flails and tears at his arms with frankly quite sharp nails, but it doesn’t take him too long to choke her into unconsciousness. He lifts her into his arms before she can fall to the ground, thinking again of plague rats. He slides her on top of the dumpster, double-checking that she won’t fall before turning his attention back to the road.

                The second guard is still at the far end, so Corvo slips out into the open, hurrying into another alleyway on the other side. He lets out a breath when he makes it into the shadows, pressing himself into the wall. Checking the heart for his bearings, Corvo moves on, recasting Dark Vision yet again.

                Around the corner of this alley and he’s near a huge concrete structure, belching plumes of smoke from towering smokestacks. This must be a workhouse, and probably Workhouse B, if the note commenting on the possible black magic is to be believed. And, he might find more than just charms or runes inside; this might be his chance to free his hands.

                Corvo studies the area with Dark Vision as he approaches. There are a few guards circling around the perimeter of the building, and as Corvo watches, one rather distant guard fades from the yellow. Corvo can clearly see him with normal vision, but apparently the magic has limits, and cannot show him _every_ life in his line of sight. He’ll have to remember that.

                He pulls the heart from his bag again, briefly reaffirming where the magical resonance is located. The heart beats most strongly on the Northern side of the building, the part nearest a large fenced-off storage yard. From his point in the alley, Corvo can see a hole in the chain-link fence that a rat could likely slip through, and so he decides to work his way in that way.

                Rats are as easy to find as ever, and he drops into the body of a white rat sniffing around a supply pallet at the end of the alley. From there, it is just a mad dash for the fence and the building beyond before the magic fades. He scrapes his belly along the ground squeezing through the hole, but he makes it through. The workhouse looms much, much larger from a rodent’s perspective, and the distance to the door seems to yawn wider and wider as he scuttles along. His vision begins to twist and pulse when he’s still nearly ten meters from the door, and he panics, ducking behind a pile of scrap metal. Then his body lurches and he is human, on his hands and knees. He looks around wildly, but none of the guards seem to have noticed him, still dutifully going about their patrols.

                Keeping as low and quiet as he can, Corvo rushes to the door, nearly collapsing in relief when it swings open at his touch. He flexes his left hand to feel the magic twist through his veins, muttering a quiet “Thank you” for his luck.

                Then he is inside and the door is closing behind him. He takes a moment to lean against the wall and catch his breath, ever vigilant with his Dark Vision. When he can move again without feeling his head reel with adrenaline, he studies his surroundings. He is in a hallway, several doors opening into rooms on either side of him, and the end of the hallway expands into what appears to be the factory floor. When he checks the heart, the second door on the left proves to hide the source of the resonance. He tries to pull it open, and he finds it locked.

                He stifles a curse. Unless there’s another way into this room, he’s going to have to find a key. Quickly peering through the keyhole confirms that there’s no other entrance that he can see. Finding no alternative, he turns to his second objective. There would definitely be tools to remove his cuffs out on the factory floor, but there also would definitely be workers, set to building machines for the Lord Regent’s militant control of the city.

                Not very optimistic, he checks the other side rooms in this hallway. One leads to a bathroom, which he gratefully uses. He takes advantage of the sink as well, to slake his thirst with water that needs no boiling. A second door is locked, too, and the last takes him into some kind of office. A cursory, half-hearted glance doesn’t reveal a key miraculously hanging from a hook, and he resigns himself to having to get out onto the factory floor without getting himself caught.

                He creeps out of the hallway, surveying the space before him. It is almost completely overrun with machinery, motorized saws and blades sending up sparks as they cleave thick sheets of metal in two. His Dark Vision reveals several workers hidden between the mess of iron and oil, their silhouettes made bulky and misshapen by the heavy protective gear they wear. As he watches, one man in some kind of shielding helmet paces between the stooped workers, gesturing at their work with his hands. That must be Artificer-In-Chief, Jean Ashworth. He’d probably have a key to the back room, Corvo thinks. The trick will be getting it from him.

                Corvo studies the path the man takes, watching him move from worker to worker, stopping briefly to comment every so often. When he has made a circuit of the entire room, he breaks off, heading for another hallway off on the other end. Corvo follows the wall around the edge and pursues him, checking behind him and finding all the workers focused on their craft.

                This second hallway makes a sharp right turn, revealing another set of doorways. The Artificer pulls a key ring from his pocket and unlocks one, moving inside. Corvo hurries after him, squeezing himself through the gap before the door drifts shut again. Without giving the man a chance to react, Corvo rushes forward and slides his arm around the man’s neck, the rough edges of his helmet digging into Corvo’s skin. The man pulls at Corvo’s arm with impressive strength, but Corvo has been returned to his peak condition by the Outsider’s magic, and he can overpower him rather easily.

                He lifts the unconscious man into his arms and sets him gently in his office chair, sliding the key ring out of his pocket while he does so. The keys jingle and clink when he tucks them into his bag, and when he does, he brushes the heart. It is beating maniacally against his fingers, and he looks around in surprise. There must be another artifact in here, too.

                It takes a bit of creative thinking and moving of the heart, but eventually he pinpoints the source as somewhere near the ceiling. The rafters are exposed in this room, but they are a good four meters above him. He climbs onto a filing cabinet, which makes up some of the difference and allows him to hear the quiet song of the magic. Thankfully, it is just over his head, and if he stands on tiptoe, he can brush his fingers along the top of the rafter, dislodging the bone charm and sending it clattering to the floor.

                He jumps down from the filing cabinet after it, scooping it into his bag as well. He’ll activate this one with the other when he gets the chance.

                From here, it is just backtracking to the hallway, and it is much easier this time when he knows the way. It takes him a bit to find the right key for the locked door, looking over his shoulder with Dark Vision all the while, but eventually the lock clicks open and he slips inside.

                The bone rune is set right out in the open on a shelf, and Corvo picks it up gratefully. It’s about time some things come to him without useless complication. He looks around the rest of the room, wondering what else the metalworks would lock away. There is a toolbox next to the door, and he digs through it, hoping for bolt cutters, maybe, for his cuffs. He doesn’t find any bolt cutters, but there is a tiny carving chisel, and that will serve him well enough to activate the slowly amassing pile of magic bones in his bag.

                Corvo bloodies the rune first, hoping for new magic to command. To his surprise, the rune does not dissolve for him, and the magic seems to whisper ‘ _Not yet. Not yet._ ’ Shrugging, he moves onto the bone charms, swiping his thumb over the sigils.

                The heart flares to light inside his bag, and it whispers into his head. ‘ _The powers here are twofold; the first grants the protection of darkness, allowing for swift passage through the shadows without risk of detection. The second will add to the strength of your arms, allowing you to steal the breath and the consciousness of your enemies with greater speed_.

                Hm. Both of those sound like they would have been extremely useful just a little while ago. He shrugs, clipping them beside the other on his belt, feeling them flare into warmth. As he does, he feels the vaguest sense of buzzing down his spine, like the barest edge of an itch. He shifts and twists, getting used to the slightly-uncomfortable sensation. That knowledge that seems to emanate from within his own mind rises forward, and he knows that he can’t carry more bone charms until he can get a stronger grip on his magic.

                Corvo checks the room one more time, crossing into the darkest corner farthest from the door. On a shelf are several boxes of bullets for the standard-issue watch pistol. He leaves them be, as he has neither a pistol to hold them nor the space in his bag for extraneous items.

                Now he has to address the cuffs. He’s probably not going to find sufficient tools to break the chains tucked away in a dusty old storage room. The only place he knows will certainly have the right machinery is the factory floor, and quite frankly, that place is swarming with workers. The fact that Corvo is currently the most wanted man in the whole Empire of the Isles probably isn’t going to make his job any easier.

                To stall for time, he fishes the key ring out of his pocket, opening the other locked door. The room is nearly identical to the one the rune was inside, save for one difference. On a shelf, there is a heavy vise, clamping together several flat bits of metal.

                Corvo studies the chain of his handcuffs. They are rather cheaply made, intended only for those prisoners who were sentenced to a quick death anyway. If he can spin the vise tight enough, it might just break one of the links, separating his hands. The cuffs would still be around his wrists, but he would be able to _move_ again, like he hasn’t in nearly half a year.

                The thought is too tempting to pass up. Corvo quickly releases the metal in the clamp, ignoring the way they fall to pieces on the table, some type of glue feebly attempting to keep them together. He slides the chain into the gap, aiming for a link nearer to his left hand. He’d rather have more dexterity with his dominant hand, if he can only have one.

                The first few turns of the tightening mechanism go smoothly and easily. Corvo can only operate it one-handed, but he seems to be doing well enough. After a time, the crank begins resisting his turns, and he has to lean on the lever with all his weight, forcing it that much further. He hears the links of the chain begin to squeak against each other, and he throws himself down against the lever with all his might. There is a long moment of tension, and then a snap as one of the poor welds gives way, abruptly freeing his left hand.

                Corvo looks down at his hand, a grin spreading across his face. He has to unspin the vise to free the chain still attached to his right hand, but already he feels so much better. He releases the chain from the clamp, letting it dangle easily from his wrist. Then he stretches his arms as far as he can in opposite directions, rising up onto his toes with the force of his enjoyment. By the Void, that feels good.

                He returns to the hallway, Dark Vision shining again in his eyes as he warily looks toward the factory floor. Thankfully, none of the workers seem to have noticed anything amiss. He readjusts his bag, sliding it more comfortably over one shoulder. He can slip right out the door he came in with no one the wiser.

                Or so he thinks. As he closes the door behind him, chain swinging freely from his right hand, he looks up and meets the eyes of a patrolling guard. For a long moment, both of them freeze, processing the sight before them. Then the guard goes for his pistol, and Corvo’s time is up. He bursts into motion, running in no particular direction except _away_ , and he dashes around the corner of a building. Rather than improve his situation, he comes across another guard, glowing brightly yellow from the magic still in his eyes.

                Cursing himself, Corvo sprints past, watching the fence line blur past beside him, hoping desperately for a gate or a stack of boxes or _anything_ that will get him out of here.

                A gunshot sounds behind him and a bullet streaks by, narrowly missing his shoulder. He knows there are mere moments before the alarm sounds and the entire damned district starts coming for him, so Corvo begins scanning desperately for a rat. He catches sight of a few, a good distance in front of him. The animals seem spooked by the ruckus, and they are fleeing too. Glancing over his shoulder at the pursuing guards, Corvo jumps sideways, sliding between two tall stacks of boxes. He sends them tumbling down behind him, heading toward those tiny escaping spots of yellow that are his only salvation.

                He rounds another corner, and he finds several rats milling around a vent, climbing over and over each other, trying to get inside all at once. Corvo calls on the magic immediately, and he slips into the mind of one near the edge of the swarm. Mere seconds later, the guards come around the corner too, guns and swords drawn. Mentally, Corvo breathes a sigh of relief; he’d gotten away. They wouldn’t think to check the rats.

                But Corvo had forgotten that these were not just rats, they were _plague_ rats, rumored to originate from the dread continent of Pandyssia. At the sound of the new threat, the rats turn, and they rush the guards in a swarm of squeaking. Corvo watches in horror as the guards’ faces twist in fear, and they swipe at the rats with their blades. But more rats keep coming even as their brethren are cut down, returning from the vent they had just been fighting to enter moments previously.

                The first guard goes down, screaming, beneath a wave of rats, and Corvo has to turn and run for the fence. He can’t keep watching this. He forces his way under, ignoring the blood that wells in his fur from the scrape against the metal. Moments later, he is human shaped, choking and gasping in an alley, his head pounding in magical exhaustion. With shaking hands, he pulls out the vial of Spiritual Remedy, fumbling the cap to the floor as he lifts it to his lips. The headache fades and he leaves the vial behind, long past caring about hiding traces of his movement.

                The guards are still screaming. He screws up his face and presses onward, fighting the bile rising in his throat. He barely remembers to reactivate his Dark Vision when it fades, too caught up in the horror.

                That was a death he would not wish on anyone. The thought that two guardsmen, simply and loyally attending their jobs, had to suffer that directly because of _his_ actions makes Corvo’s stomach clench painfully.

                He has to move on. There was- there was another artifact of the Outsider, right? He should find it. That’s what he’ll focus on.

                Pulling the heart from his bag, Corvo studies his surroundings. He’s on the other side of the workhouse now, staring down a long stretch of side road. The heart pulls him further West, and he obliges, moving quickly across the street. Now, he has more motivation to stay hidden.

                The heart tells him the artifact is on one of the higher stories of an apartment to his left, but the front entrance is bricked and sealed. Corvo has to do a little backtracking until he can find a dumpster below a balcony, which then leads to an external air duct. He follows this along the edge of the building, eventually pulling himself in through a wide-open window.

                He looks up, and he thinks he has fallen into the Void. But no, he’s still in the apartment; it is just strange and ethereal, and not at all what he expected. There is a huge shrine erected in the center of the room, draped and swathed in reams of violet fabric. Whale oil lamps litter the floor, glowing not the usual blue, but violet as well, casting strange shadows over the walls.

                The whalebone rune sits in a place of honor upon the shrine, positively roaring and hissing with dark magic. Corvo approaches with the intent to take it, and the world blurs black.

                He begins to think he must have passed out, somehow, when a low voice says, “Hello, Corvo.”

                The Outsider melts into existence, floating above the shrine and the still singing rune. Corvo feels his eyes widen. He had not expected to ever see the Outsider again, if he is honest with himself. He still can’t quite believe that their first interaction actually happened, and the knowledge that this god of mystery and darkness appeared before him not once, but a second time is just shy of mind boggling.

                He feels uneasy, and he wonders what it is that the Outsider could want.

                Dark eyes study Corvo’s face as the Outsider tilts his head to one side. “Doubting me already? I’m almost disappointed in you, Corvo.”

                “No!” Corvo hurries to say. But then he freezes, wondering if he has gone out of line.

                But the Outsider just chuckles. “Don’t worry yourself, my dear,” he admonishes. “You’ll have to try much harder to insult me.”

                Corvo ducks his head slightly in thanks, but says nothing more.

                The Outsider smiles down at him, black eyes shining eerily in a world that seems swallowed by darkness. “You’ve done quite well for yourself, so far.” He gestures lightly with one hand, and a wind blows gently at the chain hanging from Corvo’s wrist. “There were not many opportunities for you to have freed your hands so early, and yet you have done it.” His smile turns wicked, and he adds, “Then again, there were not many eventualities that resulted in the deaths of those guards, and you accomplished that easily enough.”

                Corvo feels his throat clench. “What-” he croaks around his suddenly dry tongue, “what else could I have done?”

                “Oh,” the Outsider begins, and he sounds delighted at the question, “a great many things. You might have left ten seconds later, and slipped past them without giving any sign of your presence. Or you could have slithered into the skin of the rat chewing on the bottom of Vice Artificer Denrow’s chair, and escaped noticed that way. Or, you might not have come into the factory at all.” He drifts slightly forward, that vicious smirk still on his face. “Of course,” he says, “you could have killed the men yourself. Brought a length of metal from the storeroom, ending their lives as they spilled their brains onto the cobblestones. You might have snapped the first guard’s neck with your bare hands, taking his sword and pistol before turning on his companion yourself.”

                “Or,” he breathes, now so close that Corvo could reach out and touch his folded arms, “you could have joined the swarm yourself, and feasted as you never have before.”

                Corvo takes a step back and looks away, his knees shaking again. “No,” he says, before he can think better of it. “I couldn’t do those things.”

                “Of course you could,” the Outsider replies. “But you _didn’t_.” When Corvo looks back up from the floor and meets his eyes, he continues, “I can see all of the choices any man might make in his lifetime, and each and every consequence of those decisions.” His gaze drifts, and he says, “Some are more likely than others. There are very few realities indeed where you found the code to the safe, for example.” He returns to Corvo’s face, and he leans in close, black eyes glittering. “I can predict every action of every human that ever existed, and I am almost _always_ right.”

                Corvo swallows, refusing to break eye contact again. The Outsider’s eyes are mesmerizing, and so thoroughly inhuman that it makes something tremble and cringe in his mind. There is no distinction between iris and pupil and sclera, just a wide expanse of blackness that reflects some unseen light source.

                “But you,” the Outsider says, unfolding his arms and reaching forward, tilting Corvo’s chin upward with fingers that are not only cold, but _freezing_. “You I cannot predict. You continue to surprise me, finding pathways that are so unlikely I had dismissed them as impossible.”

                Corvo could not move if he tried. He stares up into the Outsider’s face, looking into the face of the god that could tear him apart as easily as breathing. Rather than exert any of the power that Corvo can feel thrumming and pounding from that single contact with his fingertips, the Outsider has chosen him, given him gifts and powers and the ability to act on the desperate wishes he had only ever voiced in the quiet of his mind. This god has blessed him with a second chance, when he thought there was none, and he had begun to lose hope.

                Corvo is so, so thankful. Part of him worries he will never be able to pay this deity back for his gifts and his trust, will never be able to prove himself worthy of the time and the effort. But by the Void, he is going to _try_.

                The Outsider blinks once, slowly, languidly, and his smile broadens. With a voice dropped low with pleasure, he says, “You will serve me very well, in the end, won’t you?”

                And then he is gone and light floods back into the world, in violets and blues. Corvo touches his throat, feeling the sense of fingers beneath his chin and eyes upon his face. He shivers.

                He lifts the rune from the shrine, and the magic sings brilliantly into his veins, striking him with incredible force. Automatically, he retrieves the other rune from his bag, too, and he sets both side by side on the shrine. Understanding flares starburst bright in his eyes, and the options before him are dizzying. He could improve his Dark Vision, showing him not only the traces of creatures, but also of those items that influence his own eventualities. He could make himself stronger, able to jump higher, floating through the air as if it were water around his limbs. Or he could slow time for all those around him, leaving him free to tear around or through his enemies without any worry of retaliation. He could twist the laws of space, pulling himself toward a distant target with little more than a gesture of his hand and a thought.

                Or, he thinks, and there is a malicious delight in the next awareness, he could melt his enemies to ash, or gain strength from their spilled blood, and he could be stronger and better and they would all die before him. Nothing would be able to face him and live, unless he willed it.

                Corvo shudders, doing his best at forcing the thought away. He doesn’t need that. He won’t ever need that.

                He slides the metal edge of the shackles around a rune across his arm, wiping the blood that wells across both Marks. After a brief moment of deliberation while the runes dissolve and float as a cloud before his eyes, he decides to direct the magic toward the teleportation, thinking of all the times that would have been useful during his exploration today.

                The magic swells and collects on his Mark, and as he breathes out it spills across his body, sliding down his spine and across his limbs. The tingling, half-itch that had developed when he clipped the second and third bone charms to his belt begins to fade, and it is only then he realizes how irritating it had been. The new runes must have bolstered his powers in that respect as well.

                Corvo takes one last look at the shrine to the Outsider, mind still replaying the unnerving conversation. After a moment of hesitation, he nods his thanks again, heading back for the window.

                He still has work to do, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been using this map (http://calyxofawildflower.tumblr.com/post/80277953840/brokenviolins-and-i-worked-together-to-make-a) for my rendition of Dunwall. The Metalworking District should go just south of Kaldwin's Bridge, immediately adjacent to the Old Port District, the Legal District, and the Distillery District.
> 
> Also, concerning the lady-guard, Harvey Smith mentioned somewhere on Twitter that women were, in fact, part of the City Watch, just a rare occurrence. My story will reflect this, because the world could use more badass women here and there.
> 
> And I made a list of all of the bone charms, and I used an online dice-roller to randomize them. Corvo's just had some incredible luck with bone charms so far. (I mean, his first three are Void Surge, Swift Shadow, and Strong Arms. Come ON.)


	3. Chapter 3

                It takes Corvo a while before he is willing to test his new teleportation ability. He has taken back to the rooftops after leaving the shrine behind, and the dizzying drop down to the street below should his magic fail stops him dead every time he thinks he might try. Eventually, though, he comes to an intersection of streets, and he either has to teleport or climb back down.

                He crouches on the edge of the roof, curling his fingers around the frigid metal of the gutter. The Mark shines black in the rising sunlight, flexing along with the clench of his hand. He looks across the way to the roof opposite, tiles gleaming innocently in the light.

                Corvo takes a deep breath and detaches his left hand from the roof with some reluctance. He has the Health Elixirs, he reminds himself, if things go too terribly wrong. He has the rats if he gets seen, and Dark Vision to track any pursuers from behind the protection of walls and roofs. He is as prepared as he can possibly be.

                Hardening his resolve, Corvo calls up the magic, watching the Mark glow golden on his skin. A thin column of blue light erupts before him, shifting from place to place along with the movements of his eyes. He tenses for a moment, ready to dispel the magic if a guard or citizen sees it. But to his surprise, a guard walks casually along the street below, passing the light without a single glance. Inquiringly, Corvo sends the light after him with his eyes, parading it in front of his path. The man never reacts.

                The light must be only for him to see. That’s something to be thankful for.

                Corvo returns to the other roof, finding to his relief that the other building is just barely within the range of this new magic. He has just begun to wonder how to activate this magic, blinking against the reflected light of the sun, when suddenly he is rushing through open air, wind hissing against his ears, and then he is crouching on the other rooftop. He stands stock still for a long moment, feeling his heartbeat speed up against his ribcage. The world feels stilted and slow and not quite real, and he can’t catch his breath. Sounds filter strangely, stretched and warped and pulled out of shape. All at once everything comes rushing back, and he is simply standing on the rooftop, gasping for air.

                He _has_ to try that again.

                Moving closer to the center of the roof to avoid being seen from the streets, he pulls the magic forward, aiming the column of light at a spot a scant few meters in front of him. He closes his eyes, and the world races by around him, and he is standing on the second spot, his breath caught dead in his throat. Another second and the world floods in and he gasps, air filling his lungs.

                Corvo turns westward, the sun beating down nearly overhead. There is a rough patchwork of roofs and balconies in the direction he wants to go, and he feels himself grin. Then he is running, the thought of stealth and silence forgotten, pulling magic into his fist. He blinks and he is across a gap, and he _can_ walk and move while the world is all twisted and unreal, though it makes him gasp harder for breath when the atmosphere returns. The magic swells, he blinks again and he is clinging to a chimney, staring down at the city around him, his heart pounding with exhilaration.

                Outsider’s eyes, this is amazing. How can the Abbey of the Everyman criticize this as dark and evil if it makes him feel this good? It has to be more heretical to _prevent_ access to this ecstasy than it is to use it.

                A flash of a memory breaks across his eyes, of assassins wearing industrial whaling uniforms teleporting from the roof of the waterlock to the gazebo, of the man in the red coat, of Jessamine’s blood staining the marble. Of Emily, screaming and watching her mother fall, and then vanishing into the arms of her mother’s very murderers. The thought sobers him considerably, and he crouches down in the pitiful shadow the chimney provides against the noontime sun. He readjusts his bag to settle more steadily on his hip, building his pathway to the Square in his mind. He has to focus on Emily. He can’t forget.

                Corvo blinks down from the chimney onto the edge of a roof, taking a running leap and clearing the smaller gap over to the next. If he lets his Dark Vision fade, he thinks he can see the faintest glimmer of the Wrenhaven in the distance. He must be getting close to Holger Square by now.

                The houses and buildings begin rising higher and higher, and soon the street is at least four stories below him. The metal railways of the tramcars glint in the noonday sun, no longer fizzling and crackling with electricity now that the aristocracy have holed themselves up in the Estate and Legal Districts. Corvo passes numerous graffitied messages, some begging for food, some announcing belongings for sale. He takes a moment to wonder how an ordinary person might have managed to write them so high off of the ground, without the gift of a supernatural benefactor.

                He comes to another wide street, halting his forward momentum, and he crouches at the edge of a rooftop, squinting down at the street signs. As he suspected, he is above the tail end of Clavering Boulevard, Holger Square beyond another quarantine wall barely fifty meters to his left. From his perch, Corvo can see several patrolling watchmen and another temporary guard station. He traces the paths the men take, watching one pass through a Wall of Light, observing another kicking irritably at a pile of refuse at the side of the road. Not one of them spares a glance upward, and for this, Corvo is thankful. He still has no weapon, and he believes he has no chance at taking these guards down undetected; sneaking past is his only option.

                The particular quarantine wall separating the boulevard from the Square beyond is kinder than most, with a single wooden door breaking up the monotony of the metal siding. Corvo doesn’t think it will be locked, not with how thickly and swiftly Overseers have been pouring out of the Abbey.

                He studies the drop down onto an awning far, far below, and he wonders if his new teleportation might help with that. He hasn’t tried it straight down, yet. The magic flares in his skin and light blooms into existence, the top of the column about two men’s heights above the surface he aims for. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes, letting the magic fling him out into open air.

                Unreality fades and he begins to fall, fighting for breath as wind rushes past his ears. He lands heavily on the awning and the aged wood creaks alarmingly at the impact, but his limbs are intact and he is no worse for wear. He looks up at the roof several stories above him, and it strikes him again how incredible this all is. A year ago and he never would have believed he could survive jumps from the rooftops, or see through walls, or wear the skin of a rat and escape an unwarranted prison cell. Corvo flexes his left hand absently, and the Mark sings quietly, darkly upon his skin.

                But it’s not just the Mark singing, he realizes, creeping closer to the edge of the awning. The guard station is directly before him, and he can hear some sort of magic calling to him from inside. Sparing a glance for the guards further down the street, Corvo drops to the ground, slipping into the tiny metal structure. He smiles at the rune he finds, and he slides it into his bag. There is a curled note nearby, and curiously, he unrolls it, reading the message inside.

                _Corporal Meadows,_

_We found this strange rune on the woman who used to sell pastries up the street. Not sure how she died, but since the thing looks superstitious we set it aside for the Overseers. After your shift is over, take it to them for disposal or whatever they do with them. Don’t forget._

                When Corvo turns to leave, he spies a vial of Piero’s Spiritual Remedy and a tin of brined hagfish. He takes both and tucks them into his bag, briefly considering retrieving the heart and checking the area for more supernatural artifacts. But it seems foolish to risk discovery when he’s so close to his goal, and he regretfully buckles the bag shut.

                There is a metal barrier about halfway between his current location and the door to Holger Square, and a single guard lounges against it, looking bored and uncomfortable in his uniform. He must be a new recruit, joining the ranks for the promise of food and elixir instead of any sense of duty. That makes it easy for Corvo to sneak around behind him, holding his breath. From there, it is a quick blink over a pile of boxes and he is opening the door to the Square, checking warily behind him for pursuers.

                The door shuts solidly, and he looks up to the overhanging archways and thorough metalwork that decorates the entrance to the Square. He begins walking toward the bust of Holger, perched atop a tall pillar in the central Square, when a low sigh makes him freeze and press against a wall. What he had taken for a mess of metal at the pillar’s base is a man, dressed in the uniform of an Overseer, sans mask. He is sealed in iron stocks, forcing his head downward and bending his back at what looks like an uncomfortable angle.

                Corvo hesitates. The smart thing to do would be to blink past so this man doesn’t notice him or draw attention to his presence. But Corvo remembers all too well the feeling of being trapped, and something like sympathy twinges in his chest. What could this man have done to have warranted this treatment? With a boss as corrupt as Campbell, it’s just as likely that this prisoner did nothing wrong at all, except perhaps attract the ire of his superiors.

                Then Corvo remembers with a start that he is a fugitive himself. If this man _is_ simply a victim of immoral supervisors, he might take very poorly to being freed by a criminal. Corvo might find himself fleeing from the very man he aims to rescue. This could be the worst idea he has ever had, and it might send his plan to get to High Overseer Campbell reeling into chaos.

                As much as Corvo wishes he could make himself take the smart, safe route, he knows he can’t leave this man to his fate. Internally cursing his own sentimentality, he pushes off from the wall, his hands itching for a blade. Even if this man turns on him, he is confident he can get away. A small part of him warns against using his powers in an obvious manner, thinking of a distant and blurry future where he might not have to hide in shadows of abandoned buildings. After all, this man _is_ an Overseer, no matter his current state of apparent disgrace, and the Abbey’s stance on the Outsider is painfully clear. He shifts his arms a little to move his left behind him, helping to conceal the distinct shape of the Mark.

                The man’s head snaps up at the sound of Corvo’s footsteps, glaring out toward the archway with hard gray eyes. His expression changes to something amazed and nearly unreadable as he takes in the sight before him. With a voice that is a little smoother than Corvo expected after an extended time in the stocks, he says, “Outsider’s eyes. You’re Corvo Attano.”

                Corvo says nothing, studying the man’s face for any hint that might warn him if he needs to run. Smoothly, carefully, he approaches the lever holding the stock in place, all the while waiting for shouts for the guards.

                Then the Overseer does something completely unexpected. After another long moment of staring, he breaks eye contact and laughs, his shoulders shaking as best they can in their stooped position. And it just _doesn’t stop_. Even as Corvo pulls the release and the stock collapses into pieces, the smirk on the man’s face does not leave. His fingers fly automatically to his wrists, which evidently had been bruised from their time clamped in the metal.

                Corvo very carefully does not think of the cuffs still around his own wrists. He watches the man straighten stiffly, his back giving an audible pop, and he waits.

                At last, the man’s laughter subsides with a sigh. He scrubs one gloved hand over his face, watching Corvo watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Have to say,” he starts, turning to face Corvo a little more fully, “I wasn’t expecting this one.”

                Slowly beginning to accept that this man won’t be calling for the guards, at least, Corvo asks, “Have we met?”

                The Overseer shakes his head, a wry twist to his mouth. “We would have, if things had gone according to plan.” At the questioning eyebrow this comment receives, he jerks his head at the dismantled stocks. “Got thrown in there for a plot to break _you_ out of Coldridge. Not that you needed the help, apparently.” While Corvo feels his eyes widen as he processes the information, the Overseer extends a gloved hand, saying, “Teague Martin.”

                Carefully keeping his left at his side as they shake hands, Corvo asks, “Why try to break me out?”

                Martin laughs again. “Did you think everyone bought the Lord Regent’s story? Why in the Void would a Royal Protector turn against his Empress after two decades? We knew there had to be more, so we planned to have a key delivered to your cell.”

                Feeling his eyes narrow just slightly, Corvo asks, “We?”

                “There’s a group of us,” the Overseer says, folding his arms, “out in the Old Port District. At the Hound Pits Pub, just across the river from Dunwall Tower.”

                With a start, Corvo realizes he must have passed right by the area in his flight from the prison. He never would have known.

                Speculatively, Martin says, “You might want to think about heading there yourself. We can use a good man like you. We’ve got warm food and beds, and safety from the City Watch.”

                Something in Corvo twinges at the thought. How good would it be, to be able to eat and rest without having to watch for pursuers every few moments. But something dark and injured inside him snarls, reminding him that men he had worked and lived beside for years had been the very ones to tear his world to pieces. What has Martin done to earn his trust, really, beyond uttering a few pretty words?

                So he shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says, eyes going hard. “There are things I have to do.”

                “Campbell, right?” Martin asks. When Corvo whirls to face him, expression questioning, he says, “What else would you be doing on this side of the city?”

                Slightly unnerved that his actions were so easily predicted, Corvo shifts from foot to foot, the chain off of his right hand clinking slightly with the motion. If this man, who had never known him personally, could see through him so simply, how well prepared might Campbell and Burrows be?

                “Spirits,” Martin bursts suddenly, fingers moving to undo the ties of his heavy Overseer jacket, “I’m freezing just looking at you. It’s High Cold; you can’t be going around without a shirt.” He slides his belt out of the way, suspenders hanging down around his hips, and he holds his coat out. “Here,” he says, as if this was completely unremarkable.

                Corvo looks down at the proffered jacket, uncomprehending. “What about you?” he asks.

                Martin shrugs, still extending the jacket before him. “ _I_ happen to still have access to my belongings, unlike you. I can go get another.”

                Hesitantly, Corvo takes the gift, sliding it over his shoulders. The metal chain gets caught up in the sleeve and presses icily against his arm, but he leaves it be; that should keep it quiet. Already, he feels much better for the warmth and the shelter against the wind the jacket provides. He had almost forgotten what it had been like to be comfortable.

                Outside of his large coat, Martin looks… dangerous, for lack of a better word. Against the thinner fabric of his shirt, lithe muscles stand out in much more clarity. Above his collar, a thick ring a bruises from the stocks is plainly visible, the skin split and bleeding in some places. However, Martin stands straight and tall, apparently unconcerned with his state of discomfort.

                There is more to the story of Teague Martin, and Corvo’s not sure if he should try to find out.

                So he says, “Thank you,” inclining his head slightly, and he turns to walk past the pillar, moving toward his eventual target. Martin lets him pass without a word, expression blank.

                The way forward is blocked by a tall fence, and the only visible gate is locked tight. Looking up, Corvo knows he could blink up and over it easily, but not with his current audience. As he ponders how best to go about the situation, he hears footsteps walking up behind him.

                “If you _are_ going after Campbell,” Martin says, “make sure you take his journal. He’s been using the information inside to blackmail several Overseers. You don’t want that falling into the wrong hands.”

                Corvo nods, still looking at the fence as if trying to decide how best to scale it.

                “And think about coming to the Hound Pits. It’s right on the river, you can’t miss it.”

                Again, Corvo doesn’t respond. He hears the footsteps recede, and only after a solid ten seconds of silence does he look back over his shoulder.

                The streets behind him are empty, now.

                Quickly, Corvo blinks up onto a concrete support for the fence blocking his way, careful to avoid the iron spikes to either side of him. He surveys the street before him, noting the spools of barbed wire piled carelessly along a railcar track. To his left, there is a doorway presumably into some kind of storage room, and he can see the shape of an Overseer pacing back and forth in front of the window. When he looks up, hoping to take his preferred route across the rooftops, he notes that the buildings surrounding the Office of the High Overseer are stark and geometrical, offering very few places for him to blink up to. There is a ledge, but it is barely half a meter across, and it is very high off of the ground. He’s not sure his magic would be able to lift him that high.

                So it’ll be through the storeroom. After watching to make sure the Overseer inside is facing away from the door, he blinks down, pushing the iron door open without any resistance. The man inside goes down with little fanfare, gasping for air against the grip of Corvo’s arm. He passes out nearly instantly, and Corvo looks down at him, surprised.

                One of the bone charms hums on his hip, and he remembers ‘ _steal their breath and consciousness_ ’ murmured in a quiet female voice. So it was magic that aided him?

                Corvo props the fallen man up in a chair against a counter, eyeing a few plague rats in the corner mistrustfully. The man lolls forward, and his sword slips from his belt and clatters to the floor. Corvo picks it up, testing its weight and balance in his hands. It’s not as finely forged as his own blade had been, but it is serviceable. The weight of _any_ blade in his hand is a welcome relief; it makes him feel a little less helpless.

                After a moment, he unclips the man’s suspenders and belt, the better to hold the sword with. He would have taken his boots too, for his own are still uncomfortably damp, but the man’s feet are too large for him, and he has to move on.

                He thinks of the irony as he pulls another layer of the Overseer’s uniform in place, sliding the blade of his new sword into its place against his hip. A heretic and a wanted man, wearing the clothes of the very men who are trying to destroy him. He thinks for a moment of taking the Overseer’s mask, too, to let him move about the Abbey comparatively uncontested, but he decides against it, wondering how good the peripheral vision in those masks could be, twisted as they are into expressions of fury and disgust.

                A nearby supply cabinet offers a treasure trove; there are bolts, presumably for some type of crossbow, another tin of hagfish and a vial of Spiritual remedy, and two bits of complicated-looking machinery. Corvo doesn’t recognize the larger one, and he leaves it be, judging the remaining space in his bag as insufficient for unknown items. The second, though, he knows to be a springrazor, a kind of particularly vicious proximity mine that unleashes a whirl of shrapnel and razorwire upon activation. He leaves this in place, too, uncomfortable with the thought of turning such a device upon his another person.

                The back door of the storage room leads to the Holger Square proper, and Overseers are crowded across the cobblestones, moving about their midday patrols. Corvo hesitates just inside the door, formulating his plan.

                Going through the front door of the Office doesn’t really seem feasible, not with the Overseers everywhere in sight. To make matters worse, another metal gate bars his way, meaning he’d either have to use his powers and therefore draw the attention of every zealot on the premises, or he would have to move through the floodlights, revealing his presence anyway.

                He notices a staircase leading down directly in front of the door he is hiding behind, and, taking a gamble, he calls his magic and blinks down it, hoping to avoid detection. The stairway doesn’t lead to a convenient alley, as he might have wished, instead ending in three outflow pipes. Two of these are covered with heavy metal fencing, obviously an attempt to stymie the movement of rats, but the third’s fence has fallen away to rust in the mud. Corvo peers down this pipe, judging its dimensions. He could fit through it, if he didn’t mind having to travel through the plumbing yet again, but he can’t see where the pipe leads, thwarted by a sharp right turn.

                It seems to go in the general direction he is hoping for, and he doesn’t have much to lose, so he pulls himself up and inside, patting at the sword on his belt with one hand. The pipe is rather disgusting, runoff from the recent rains splashing under his footsteps, washing trash out into the street behind him. Thankfully, however, it does not narrow, and soon he comes upon a feeble attempt at a wooden barrier at the pipe’s other entrance. This he smashes with his sword, ears pricked to see if any guard might come to investigate the sound.

                None come forward, and he follows the crawlspace beyond until he comes to a chain, leading upward into a space filled with light above. A vial of Health Elixir sticks out of a pile of rocks, and he sweeps this into his bag, turning his attention to the chain. Climbing is so much easier this time, now that his body isn’t screaming with pain, and he comes upon a little room, with a sign reading “To Kennels” directing him through the only door.

                He grimaces. Wolfhounds. If there was one thing to be said about the vicious beasts the Abbey lovingly trained and kept, it was that they were best avoided. Corvo had seen scars from hound bites rarely, and much more often the stumps of limbs where a bitten arm or leg had to be amputated. Neither option was very desirable.

                But he moves onward, knowing that this will lead him closer to Campbell.

                And Campbell will lead him closer to Emily.

\---------

                The smell of the kennels is what hits him first. Corvo had been expecting the overwhelming odor of excrement, having spent enough time with animals over the years, but the sharp scent of blood and rot surprises him. Crouching atop a pile of boxes, he leans around a wall, and he sees three Overseers walking up and down a row of hound cages with buckets held under their arms. As he watches, he sees the one nearest him pull open a cage door, spilling the contents of the bucket onto the floor. The wolfhound descends on it at once, crocodilian teeth snapping and tearing, sending splashes of red over the stone and its fur.

                “What a good boy, Ratter,” the Overseer croons, closing the door again. “There’ll be more where that comes from, after tomorrow.”

                Another Overseer joins the first, wiping his gloves on the front of his jacket. “I thought Ratter wasn’t coming to the Flooded District.”

                The first nods, setting his bucket down on the floor. “Yes, the poor thing. Took a knife in the flank a couple of nights ago, so he can’t come help us chase down those nasty heretics.” He crouches at the bars of the cage, watching the wolfhound feasting on the meat. “We could bring something back for him.”

                The second Overseer scoffs. “And would _you_ be the one to carry a body all the way back?”

                As the first Overseer goes to explain the statement away, Corvo gets his first good look at what the wolfhound is eating. The bones are a touch too large for most of the local wildlife, and the blood too bright for any deep sea creature. Then the hound shifts, stepping on a piece of meat to tear it to bits, and Corvo sees a human hand crunch beneath the hound’s teeth.

                Corvo pulls back, bile rising in his throat. Suddenly, his guilt about the fact that he has become an enemy of the Abbey drops from low to completely zero, if things like _this_ were a frequent practice.

                He can hear the Overseers moving further down the hallway, still chattering unconcernedly. Corvo leans out from his hiding place again watching them go, and then he blinks into a side doorway, climbing atop a pile of boxes. From there, it is easy to come to a pipe near the ceiling, and he follows it as far as it will take him, passing quietly over the head of another Overseer holding a bucket. Here, his aerial pathways run out, and he is forced to drop to the ground, moving as quickly as he can past a distracted and feasting hound. He calls Dark Vision to check around a corner, and, seeing no one, he moves through a doorway into a storage area. There is a cot to his left, a loose paper lying on top, but he doesn’t feel he has time to stop and read it.

                His Dark Vision shows another Overseer further down the hallway, and he approaches, intending to choke him into unconsciousness before his brethren notice. But he turns a moment too soon, and Corvo startles, pulling the blade from his belt.

                Now it is time to see if his swordsmanship has suffered from his imprisonment. The stance he slips into is easy, the blade held steadily in his hand, his footsteps sure. Then he is slashing out before the Overseer can do much more than draw breath, scoring the first hit against the man’s forearm as he throws his hand up to defend himself. The Overseer goes for his gun and Corvo presses forward, knowing that if gunshots are fired he will have lost all advantage of surprise across the entire damned building.

                The Overseer makes a mistake, stepping back with one foot and sighting down the line of his gun. It would be effective, if Corvo was also battling with a gun or maybe a crossbow. As it is, though, Corvo rushes toward the man’s unprotected shoulder, shifting his grip on the sword and driving it harshly downward into the man’s chest.

                The Overseer gasps and chokes, and his gun tumbles from his hand. Corvo watches him fall, breath heaving in his chest. He retrieves his blade, movements mechanical, and he drags the man away from the main path, hiding him behind a large and empty cabinet.

                His breathing is still sharp when he pushes through another door, entering a space decorated in the smooth white marble he associates with the Office of the High Overseer. Before him is another bust of Holger, but this one is unusual. As Corvo approaches, he notices the statue’s left eye is shining oddly green in this dim hallway, light seeming to emanate from within. Experimentally, he presses on it, and with a great scraping sound, a marble panel lifts up into the ceiling, revealing a secret space hidden beyond.

                Music assaults Corvo’s senses, classical violins and cellos playing mournfully from an audiograph near the door. He pulls out the card, disabling the music, thinking of the Overseers still swarming over the premises. Only then does he look around, taking in the rich carpet and drapes, and the trophy case of valuables, from which a faint dark-magic singing emanates. There must be an artifact of the Outsider inside. A large painting of Campbell himself lies off to one side, and Corvo recognizes it as the one Sokolov had been painting the day Jessamine had died. Slightly vindictively, he draws his blade, cutting the canvas away from the frame and rolling it into his bag. He might be able to sell it, later. Sokolov paintings always sell well.

                To the left of the now-barren frame is a mess of mattresses. Corvo feels his face curl in disgust at the scattered underclothes and coins, the fruit and the bottles of wine. Whoever uses this room obviously has no compunctions about breaking the sixth stricture, at least.

                There is an audiograph on a low table, and after a considering glance over his shoulder, he slides the waiting card into place and plays it.

                Campbell’s voice rises out of the machine, bitter and angry, and Corvo goes completely still and quiet to listen.

                “ _Curse those fools at Coldridge for letting Corvo get away. Who knows what the man could do now. Hiram, or the Lord Regent, as he asks us to call him now, seems to have faith in all the Sokolov security devices he’s put up all over the city. But I’m not so sure. At least the girl has been moved to a safe place. Visiting her twice a week has given me ample opportunity to“inspect the facilities” as they say. So there’s an upside, at least.”_

                The girl. He has to mean Emily. Corvo whirls around, looking for any other information that might lead him closer. There is a hand-written note on a cabinet, and he snatches it up, speeding through the note.

_Campbell,_

_I’m not sure how my predecessor operated, but from now on if one of my girls tries to blackmail you, you send her back to me at the Golden Cat instead of concocting some plan on your own. I’ve had to replace three girls in as many months, and you can imagine the business of carnal pleasure isn’t booming in this plague stricken hole you call a city._

_Madam Prudence_

                With feelings of mingled horror and rage, Corvo drops the note. He looks at the mess of bedding on the floor, thinks of the smugness in Campbell’s voice as he says ‘inspect the facilities.’ They’ve brought Emily into a _brothel_. The daughter of the Empress, heir to the throne, and the sweetest and brightest girl Corvo has ever met is trapped in a whorehouse, where all manner of unsavory character will have access to her _daily._

                Corvo is going to kill Campbell. He is going to kill Campbell, and then he is going to get Emily. Nothing will stand in his way any longer.

                He whirls and slashes his sword at the trophy case, sending the glass panels shattering and tumbling to the floor. There is a rune inside, as he suspected, and he slips this into his bag at once, not bothering to stop and activate it. He also notices a pistol, loaded and ready, and he picks it up, comparing it to the guns he had used as Royal Protector. It only has one bullet in the chamber, but it will serve him well enough. He flicks on the safety and clips this into its place on the chest piece of the Overseer harness, so he can free his left hand for use of his magic.

                He calls on Dark Vision and crosses back out into the hallway, pressing Holger’s eye to close the door to the secret room behind him. There is no one immediately nearby, but he can see several shapes of Overseers moving on a floor above. He pulls open the only other doorway, moving through and beginning to climb the newly-revealed staircase.

                If he was Campbell, where would he be? The Abbey must be preparing for a sermon later that evening, as they always do, but does that require the attention of the High Overseer himself? Corvo also knows that the Abbey holds prisoners from time to time, interrogating them for their heresy. There must also be records maintained somewhere, or such a large organization would rapidly fall into chaos.

                A yellow figure moves past the door at the top of the staircase, and Corvo lunges out for them, choking the Overseer into unconsciousness. Carelessly, he drops the body along the top of the stairs, closing the door behind him. He should probably check upstairs first, where the public are not granted access.

                A second guard stands before a wall, and Corvo chokes this one too, thankful for the bone charm on his hip that shortens how long he must wait before he passes out. He tucks this one away on a bench, scooping up a vial of Spiritual Remedy that slides from his pocket as he does.

                The wall the guard was standing in front of holds a map, and Corvo studies it quickly. An interrogation room, an archive, and a meeting chamber are all on this floor as he suspected, as well as an undesignated space beyond. That’s probably Campbell’s office; he will check there first.

                When he goes to move down the hallway toward the office, a line of several Overseers turns his direction, glowing brightly yellow in his Dark Vision. Cursing, he moves back into the shadows, climbing first up the bench he propped the unconscious Overseer on, then up onto a large filing cabinet. From here, he can climb onto a metal sheet above the doorway, putting him about level with several light fixtures lining the hallway.

                The Overseers pass through the door beneath him, talking amongst themselves. “Of course,” one is saying, “we couldn’t have left it like that. So Jameson stayed to talk to the neighbors while I came here for my report. It’s not often we find so many in one place.”

                The others make sounds of assent, and one moves to hold the door open for the rest to pass by. He apparently catches sight of the Overseer Corvo knocked out, and he calls, “Hey! Are you asleep?”

                Corvo tenses on his perch near the ceiling, thinking the entire Office is about to go into alert. But one of the other Overseers claps the speaker on the shoulder, saying, “Ah, let him rest, Felton. We all need to be ready to travel tomorrow.”

                The group continues down the stairs, and Corvo lets out a sigh. Pulling magic into his fist, he blinks over to a light fixture, gambling that it can support his weight. It groans beneath his feet, but gives him the angle he needs to teleport again, this time to a set of pipes leading into a room where a large table and several chairs have been set. This must be the meeting room the map advertised, making the door beyond Campbell’s suspected office.

                As he surveys the area with Dark Vision, noting several yellow figures on the other side of the wall, he catches sight of a bone rune, set in a frame of red fabric. There is some kind of plaque beneath it, but it is much too far away for Corvo to read from his perch in the rafters.

                Checking that no Overseers are coming this way, he drops lightly to the ground, careful to make sure his sword does not strike the tile. Moving swiftly, he pries the rune from the frame, putting it into his bag beside the others. His eyes wander over the plaque, and he has to resist the urge to scoff.

                _Let this serve as a reminder of our cause. A token of the Outsider’s power bound here before us. Let us not allow it to twist our hearts. Our gaze shall not wander toward it, nor will our hands reach out in restless greed to grasp it._

                He turns his attention to Campbell’s office, and the many figures beyond. There are two Overseers, standing guard on either side of the door, their masks making their silhouettes distinct. Another seems to be pulling something from a shelf, or maybe a cabinet. The last yellow figure is lounging in some kind of low chair, his hand cupped as if holding a glass, or a bottle.

                Campbell.

                Corvo presses himself against the wall on this side of the door, thinking. He can probably catch one by surprise and send him into unconsciousness, but that will make the coming fight three on one.

                He doesn’t mind. He knows exactly how that fight is going to go.

                The door opens easily and silently before his touch, because of course Campbell would not stand doors that creak. The first guard barely has time to inhale before Corvo is pulling him backward, the bone charm tucked beneath the Overseer coat burning on his hip.

                The first man falls to the ground with a remarkable thud, drawing the attention of the others in the room. The Overseer nearest the door grasps his sword, drawing Corvo into a fighting stance, even as Campbell and the last Overseer struggle to their feet.

                Fighting with a blade is familiar, and a confidence he has long missed flows easily down his limbs. The Overseer feints to the right transparently, and Corvo is ready for him as he turns and strikes to the left, locking swords with a harsh scrape of metal on metal. Corvo leans on him, keeping his wrist steady, and he knocks the man’s sword away and down to the ground. Then he is stabbing forward, sliding the blade between the man’s ribs, sending him coughing and sprawling. Blood seeps past his fingers as he presses gloved hands to the wound, but the injury is clearly mortal, and Corvo steps over his twitching legs.

                Campbell gasps as he watches Corvo approach, scrambling for the sword he has attached to his belt. “Seize him!” he shouts, gesturing for the last Overseer to face Corvo. The man steps forward hesitantly, pulling his pistol from the harness over his shoulder. Thinking quickly, Corvo pulls magic into his fist, and he teleports behind the man, jabbing the sword through the man’s spine.

                He turns to face Campbell, flicking some of the blood from his sword. The High Overseer is very pale, and his sword has dropped out of a ready stance to drag against the fancy carpets on the floor. “You-” he gasps, but he can’t seem to form the words, staring at Corvo’s hand in horror.

                Corvo lets the Mark glow bright, readying magic to blink away if Campbell shows any sign of recovering. “You aren’t the only one with powerful friends,” he says, stalking forward.

                Campbell backs away, lifting his sword in front of him. “Guards!” he cries, finding his voice at last. “Guards! Assassin!”

                Corvo lashes out, only mildly surprised when he meets the resistance of another blade. As he pulls back and swings from another angle, he snarls, “Is Emily at the Golden Cat?”

                The look of surprise on Campbell’s face tells him all he needs to know.

                Campbell is moderately more skilled than his underlings, but the position of High Overseer is not won through prowess in battle. Royal Protector _is_ , and no amount of time in prison can steal knowledge or muscle memory. He also has the advantage of cold, simmering rage, where Campbell is hindered by shock and panic. Corvo allows a slash along one shoulder so he can press forward, and he catches hold of Campbell’s free arm with his Marked hand, magic still glowing fiercely against his skin. He allows his momentum to carry him forward and through, and his sword sinks heavily into Campbell’s chest.

                Corvo lets the body fall, leaving the sword in its place. He lets out a long breath, rage still seething in his veins, and he checks the surrounding area with Dark Vision. No one seems to have heard the scuffle, helped by the thick and expensive walls of Campbell’s office, but he knows he has little time before the bodies are found.

                He crouches and takes the sword of a fallen Overseer, noting grimly the blood splattered liberally across his person, and the large tear over his wounded shoulder. Hopefully Martin was serious in his assertion that he had another jacket.

                The thought of Martin makes him turn back to Campbell, specifically to the many pouches adorning his belt. Hadn’t Martin mentioned some sort of blackmail journal?

                He stoops over Campbell’s body, ignoring the spreading blood oozing across the floor. He is mildly surprised at how easy it is to find the journal, and he opens it, wondering what kind of information could be inside that Martin finds so dangerous.

                _W cemw gsdddpvv e pzgo sw gziigziik alf apwk ti lvzy me ulity vw wgppfkn..._

                Of course it’s encoded. When has Corvo’s life ever been easy?

                He slides the journal into his bag, turning his attention back to the rest of the building. Another group of Overseers is passing by in the hallway, and Corvo returns to his hiding place above the door. Unfortunately, all of his luck seems to run out at once, and the group turns and heads toward the meeting room. Corvo hadn’t closed the door to Campbell’s office, and the four bodies are in plain sight. Cursing, he casts about for another way out. He follows the thick electrical piping, passing by a door labeled ‘Archives.’ The pipes end, and he blinks atop another light fixture, peering down the pathway. There, at the end of the hallway; a window is propped open.

                He pulls himself through the window frame and finds himself on the high half-meter ledge he had seen some time ago. If he moves carefully, he can follow it along the edge of the building and get himself out of the way before alarms start sounding. Soon, he comes back to the square where Martin had been held, and he peers down into the street below. Even more Overseers have come onto the streets, and he grimaces. As capable as he may be in a swordfight, he doesn’t particularly _want_ to throw himself into another battle. His shoulder still aches from Campbell’s blade, and he can feel something warm and wet dripping down his skin.

                He’s considering teleporting into a shaded area and trying to make a break for it anyway when he catches sight of the rats. Letting out a relieved sigh, he sheathes his sword and readjusts his bag on his hip, pulling the Outsider’s power into his hand. He picks out the one white rat from the group for no particular reason, and then he slides off of the ledge and into the rat’s mind, magic whispering around him. From there, it is easy to slide through the metal bars of the fence and dash his way across the little square, passing the dismantled shackles and a billboard with wanted posters bearing his name. The magic forces him back to two legs when he reaches the archway, but by that time, he is confident he has gotten away.

                After all, what’s one more rat in a city overrun?

                He turns to the quarantine wall, checking with his Dark Vision before pushing the door open and coming back to Clavering Boulevard. He teleports behind a metal barrier, hiding from the still patrolling guards, pressing close to the shadows at the side of the road. From there, he finds an awning and he pulls himself up, and blinks beyond to the top of a sign reading “The Captain’s Chair Hotel.” It is only at this point that he can finally make it to the high roofs, and he crouches, looking at the huge sign above a side road pronouncing “The Golden Cat” in enormous letters.

                Emily lies beyond that wall. Corvo’s finally coming to save her, after the long months apart.

                He feels the magic burning in his hand, and he breathes out slowly and smoothly. He touches his free hand to the wound in his shoulder, his fingers coming away stained with red. He remembers the runes in his bag, and he thinks now is as good a time as any to activate them.

                The knowledge that comes to him this time is much more varied. Now he can command the wind, or extend the range of his blink, or summon a swarm of plague rats from nothing. His previous options remain available to him as well, whispering promises of bent time, or of enemies claimed by the Void, or the taste of blood upon his tongue. He pushes the angry thoughts away, focusing on Emily. Slowing time seems the most useful to him in this case, granting him those extra seconds he might need to avoid guards and get himself and Emily out of harm’s way.

                Choosing this magic leaves Corvo with one rune left over, and he returns this to his bag. He turns to face the wall, feeling his new power thrum beneath his skin.

                Campbell is dead. All that is left is to save Emily, and then he can go for Hiram Burrows, and finally enact justice on Jessamine’s murderers.

                _Don’t worry, Emily_ , he thinks. _I’m coming_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sundays are going to be postin' days. Or at least, that's the plan.


	4. Chapter 4

                It doesn’t take long for Corvo to come across his first big obstacle, and it makes his gut clench. He hadn’t paid attention to the small lettering on the sign for the Golden Cat that read ‘opening soon,’ but they quickly become apparent when he spies the plague wall and the metal barriers holding the doors shut.

                Plague. At the Golden Cat. And Emily still trapped inside.

                Corvo grows increasingly frustrated, slipping around guards when he can, choking those he can’t avoid into unconsciousness, and still he can’t find a way inside. True, he can get to a rooftop _near_ the entrance to the Cat, but his blink isn’t far enough to get him higher. He’s seriously regretting spending his runes on bending time.

                The more time he wastes, the longer the Overseers have to find Campbell’s body, and to therefore sound the alarm. A district full of guards on high alert certainly won’t make getting into the Cat any easier, and the last thing he needs is more complication.

                He takes back to the streets, watching the sun begin its descent. He’ll have to backtrack along Clavering, and maybe he’ll come across some alley or tunnel beneath the streets that can take him where he needs to go.

                He stalks over the rooftops around the Boulevard, looking down at the heads of wandering watchmen, and something inside him curls and flinches, desperately wounded. He’s so _close_. He’s so close and he can’t find a way in, and Emily is _waiting_ for him and he _can’t get to her_.

                Corvo blinks up onto the highest point of the archway where Clavering Boulevard meets the waterfront, and he looks out toward the Golden Cat despairingly. He can come in from the river, maybe. The Cat is right on the water, right? But the signs and the walls and the blockades make him wonder, what if Emily isn’t in the Cat at all? What if the plague swept the courtesans all away, and one lost little girl along with them? What if he’s already too late?

                But no. He has to get inside, no matter what, and even if Emily _isn’t_ there, it will give him a place to start looking.

                Restless, he blinks down from his high perch onto the roofs of the buildings near the old whiskey distillery, peering down at dumpsters filled with empty food containers and rotten remains of fruit. He crouches down at the end of a roof, still looking out toward the distant shape of the Golden Cat with something like helplessness strangling his limbs. He needs a way inside, but how, _how?_

                He pulls the heart from his bag, intending to squeeze it and maybe get some guidance that way, when it thumps into motion in his fingers. There’s magic nearby, and a lot of it.

                Turning slowly in place, the heart held before him like a beacon, he identifies at least six sources of magical resonance. At least one of them has to be a rune, right? He might find enough to extend the range of his blink, and then he can get to Emily.

                He faces the place where the heart beats the strongest, the light within shining bright. It points him through a large building that he can’t quite get on top of, so he has to blink to the ground, eyes wide with Dark Vision to monitor the people in the buildings around him. He remembers the Distillery District as being home to the Bottle Street Gang, and he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

                When he finds the building the heart directs him towards, he grimaces. There are windows, but they are too small to climb through, and the only visible door is boarded over. With one last glance to ensure he won’t be followed, he smashes down the wooden barrier, walking into the space inside.

                He can hear dark magic singing as soon as he crosses the threshold, and he is getting familiar enough with the distinct sounds to identify this one as a bone charm. He surveys the area around him, noting how it seems to be stocked quite well, with tins of whale and eel aligned neatly on the shelves. He leaves them be, thinking his own hagfish will serve him well enough, later.

                As he walks toward the only other door, several yellow figures blur into being on a higher floor. Two are twisted at such awkward angles that they can’t be anything but dead, but the third is curled somewhat comfortably, and as Corvo watches, this figure shifts and turns, evidently in restless sleep.

                Corvo keeps his steps as quiet as he can, passing through the doorframe and into a ruined stairwell. Some kind of box has been propped up in the crumbling space beyond, giving him a way up to the second floor. He climbs on top of it, mildly impressed at how well it has been stabilized in the pile of rubble below, and he pushes himself up onto a rough wooden floor.

                The bone charm is roaring in his ears, and he picks it up off of the table if only to silence the ringing. He looks around, curious, and he sees the sleeping form of an old man tucked onto a sheet-covered sofa. The man’s face is twisted with some kind of pain or grief, and he coughs in his sleep, hunching forward on himself. Corvo feels something ache at the sight, and, thinking impulsively, he slides a vial of Health Elixir out of his bag and places it in plain sight, perhaps in exchange for the bone charm. He hopes he has helped this man, if only in some small way.

                The next closest point of resonance seems to originate in the Old Dunwall Whiskey Distillery, and he grimaces. He’ll just… save that one for later, not relishing the idea of facing an entire gang’s worth of angry men. He remembers, vaguely, that the Bottle Street Gang had perfected some way of altering the whiskey until it could serve as a highly flammable mist. It had become something of a signature move for the gang members to blow these fumes over a lit match or other small flame, allowing them to breathe fire against their enemies. No, Corvo thinks, remembering iron pokers branding his flesh and the agony he had to endure for weeks afterward, he doesn’t want to fight them if he can avoid it.

                So he turns right, following along the deserted alley, past overflowing dumpsters and under an archway. The heart points him to the left of a building marked with the bright red X of the plague, but there is nothing that way but the blank reverse-side of an apartment. He’ll have to go through the open balcony of the condemned building, and hope for a window, or another door.

                He climbs up a wooden ramp past several whale oil lanterns, somewhat surprised at how easily he can get up to the second story. Perhaps someone else was also using this place as a hideout from the Watch and the plague. He will have to be careful not to be seen.

                He pulls himself up and over the balcony railing and he looks up to see - a rowboat, suspended from the ceiling. A whitewashed skull decorates the floor beneath the boat, grinning without seeing up at the bizarre sight above. Now he is uneasy; he has heard the stories, as everyone has, of how worship of the Outsider could drive men mad. Considering his new circumstances, he had thought them little more that Overseer propaganda. But the stories are very pervasive, and perhaps there is some truth to them. Just as he doesn’t fancy a fight with a fire-breather, he doesn’t much want to battle a madman.

                Hesitantly, he creeps past the dangling boat and through the door, moving down a staircase to the first floor. There are whale oil lamps all around, more than he is accustomed to seeing. They cast a faint, flickering light that seems to flutter and dance on the walls, warping the shadows into something moving and alive.

                There is a hallway at the foot of the stairs, and a doorway on the other side of a small kitchen. It is this Corvo pushes open, following the direction of the beating heart.

                The light goes violet and strange, more whale oil lamps scattered along a descending stone staircase. He looks up at the sliver of sky overhead he can see between towering buildings, and the shade of blue reminds him viscerally of the color of the Void.

                He knows what he will see before he rounds the corner. A shrine to the Outsider stands proudly against a wall, an intricate scaffolding of wiring and wood supporting two large curtains of violet fabric. There are lamps tucked into every corner, some atop the rocks, some beneath the shrine, and one next to the bone rune propped delicately against a spire of wood.

                He expects the way the world swims away into blackness and starlight when he lifts the rune, and he feels more than sees the rush of displaced nothingness as a figure manifests before him, arms folded casually.

“Looking for something, Corvo?” the Outsider drawls, floating lazily in the swell of blackness his presence generates.

                “Where do I go?” Corvo asks immediately, feeling the metal edges of the rune digging into his clenched fingers. “How do I get inside?”

                “My dear, you know better,” the deity chides. “What fun would there be in telling?”

                Corvo bows his head, tendrils of darkness flicking and curling in the edges of his vision. He still hasn’t quite managed to find the boundaries and rules for interactions with the Outsider. The god had come to him, after all, and gifted him with more than he ever could have dreamed of receiving. The simple gratitude Corvo feels for this is nearly overwhelming, and it colors every thought he has had – and, he suspects, every thought he ever _will_ have – about the strange and quiet man.

                But he’s _not_ a man, not really, and this fact is continually apparent. Though the form he chooses to present is largely unremarkable, save for those black, black eyes, the Outsider moves as if he’s not precisely comfortable with it, like it doesn’t quite fit. His shoulders are always held a little too stiff, his expressions feel a touch too flat, and when he moves, there is a fluidity that doesn’t belong, like bones are a mere suggestion that can be ignored at will.

                And then there is the way the Outsider _looks_ at him. There are layers of emotion hidden in his expressions, tangled and interlocking and overlapping and incredibly difficult to place. The possessiveness at least is clear enough. The proof of this is burned into Corvo’s skin, glowing and singing with every minute flex of his fingers. There’s condescending amusement, too, like Corvo is perhaps a clever hound, performing tricks for scraps of meat. Corvo might feel offended and angry, if not for the fact that the Outsider is so plainly and effortlessly powerful, bending the rules of reality and probability on a whim. It makes Corvo feel small, caught in the space between fear and awe.

                There is a large part of him that feels that he _owes_ the Outsider somehow, for his gifts, for the second chance, but he doesn’t know what he has left to give that this god might want. He has no offerings to leave at his shrines, no knowledge of the intricacies of magic or ritual, nor even something as simple as the time to spend in moments of thankful prayer at the violet altars. It leaves Corvo feeling like he is scrambling, dashing from place to place, looking for suitable payment even as he incurs more and more debt. But perhaps the attempt is payment enough, as the Outsider watches him, heavy with the knowledge of the consequences of Corvo’s decisions, unwilling to tell and watching with delight as the world begins to crumble around him. There’s an aspect to this god that’s like a child peeling the wings from dragonflies, grinning with teeth that look too blunt for his mouth all the while as the insects writhe in pain.

                The Outsider is smiling one of his unsettling little smiles now, something in the gentle tilt of his head both beautiful and alien. Corvo looks up at him, brushing away hair from his eyes with an absent hand. Swallowing once, he tries again. _“Is_ there a way in?”

                After a long, considering moment, the Outsider replies, “Yes. There are many.”

                Letting out a thin little breath between his teeth, Corvo says, “Then that’s all I need to know.” He stands a little straighter, and he risks turning away from the Outsider’s still piercing gaze to slip the rune into his bag. He can feel the promise of magic thrumming against his fingertips, but he’ll need to find another before he can blink further, and he can be patient. He looks up again to find the deity still staring at him, something like bemusement in those black eyes. “Thank you,” Corvo says, brushing his palms distractedly against the fabric of his pants.

                There is a different note to the silence this time, as the Outsider observes him. It’s almost like static, like the crackle before an announcement spreads its message across the entire city, or maybe like the first breath of wind without salt on the air, carrying the awareness that a storm is brewing in the clouds high overhead. There’s so much _anticipation_ carried within it, and Corvo waits with disquiet loud in his thoughts, meeting this god’s gaze with unwavering eyes.

                “You are an unusual one,” the Outsider says, at long last. “Through the ages, there have been those that cower at the sight of me, and others that fall into groveling worship. Then there are those that think I am nothing but the ravings of a fevered mind, and those others still that hate me with every shred of their pitiful existences. But _you,”_ and there is definitely something dark and predatory in the Outsider’s smirk, “you know the power I hold, and still you stand before me unbowed and unafraid.”

                “Of course I fear you,” Corvo says, fighting to keep his hands from curling into the fabric of the Overseer jacket. He steels himself with a breath, and he chances saying, “But you came to me. I’m worth something to you.”

                The Outsider drifts just slightly closer, the dimensions of the world warping and bending around him, splitting into Void and violet light and deep, deep blackness. “You sound so sure,” he says, and Corvo cannot place the emotion in his words.

                “Am I wrong?” Corvo asks, looking just slightly up to meet dark eyes. At this angle, in the brightness that seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere even as darkness consumes the surroundings, Corvo can see that his eyes aren’t uniformly black. There’s a faintest stain of deeper black, almost oval-shaped but compressed from the top down, leaving a distinct ‘u.’ It’s bizarre and unexpected, and just another reminder that this creature before him is not human, not even close.

                The Outsider studies him for a long, still moment, and his smile shifts. “No,” he says, “I suppose you are not.” He pauses, a deeply pleased look on his face. “There are not many who would speak to me in this way.”

                Now Corvo does allow his hands to clench into fists, feeling magic pulsing in his veins. “There are not many you have chosen,” he retorts, keeping his breathing still and steady and smooth.

                “There are not,” the Outsider concedes, and he begins to fade back into the blackness and shadow in patches. “There are not many like you.”

                The world comes rushing in, and the dim light of the setting sun reflecting off of the tall apartment buildings seems far too bright on his eyes. Corvo turns and retraces his path, moving past whale oil lanterns with a new sense of purpose in his steps.

                He has somewhere to be, after all.

\------

                Corvo finds two more bone charms before he makes any headway on his attempt to enter the Golden Cat. The first is at the very end of the pier extending from the end of Clavering Boulevard out into the Wrenhaven, requiring a stint in the scales of a hagfish and the climbing of a chain. There had been a book of old Serkonan poetry nearby, and he had allowed himself a moment of nostalgia as he turned the pages, his mind whispering along easily with the rhythm of the songs and poems before he even read the words.

                The second is on the upper floor of a tenement building, laid reverently on the beginnings of a violet cloth and wood shrine. Taking this does not prompt another visit from the resident deity, and Corvo doesn’t know if it is because the shrine is unfinished, or if the god has nothing more to say to him. For now.

                He is walking along in an alley beneath Clavering Boulevard, doing his best to flick the blood of rats off of his blade, when he hears the quiet singsong. It’s indistinct, and it takes him a bit to pinpoint its location. The sounds seems to be coming from a tunnel right along the underside of the Boulevard above, and when he creeps inside, he can begin to make out individual words.

                It’s a nonsensical babbling, spoken rhythmically, and he doesn’t recognize the language. The speaker is female, and as he creeps nearer, he can hear someone shifting pieces of wood and metal. Corvo hesitates, hiding in the shadow behind a pillar, thinking that maybe he should not approach further. All at once the sound of movement stops and the voice calls out, “Is that you, my dear one?”

                He freezes, wondering if he can just turn and leave, when he catches sight of the woman at the end of the hallway. Her hair is pinned delicately into a bun on the top of her head, and her clothes had clearly once been fancy and expensive, but they have been worn down to fraying sleeves and a tattered collar. Her face is lined with age, bracketing her mouth and eyes with the memories of years of laughter and sorrow. But none of these things are what draws Corvo’s attention.

                Her eyes are solidly white. She’s completely blind.

                “Come out of the cold, dearie,” she is saying, “and let Granny get you something to drink.”

                Against his better instincts, Corvo finds himself walking forward, passing more pillars joined by rotting wooden boards. The woman shepherds him down onto an overturned crate, shoving a teacup and saucer into his hands. He looks down through the steam and sniffs at the drink inquisitively. There is no scent; this is just a cup of boiling water. Wondering how smart it would be to unquestioningly accept food from a strange woman, he places the teacup delicately on the saucer, balancing it on his knees.

                The old woman pays him no mind, digging through miscellaneous items in a shelf, occasionally throwing the more useless things to the ground behind her. Corvo watches her in amazement, nudging at an empty can with the toe of his boot. He wonders vaguely what he has gotten himself into.

                “Where is it,” the woman mutters, carelessly dropping what looks like half a blood sausage onto a pile of loose papers. “Where has it gone?”

                After another few moments of murmuring, Corvo can restrain his curiosity no longer, and he asks, “Who are you, exactly?”

                “Oh, no one, dearie,” she says, still pulling things from the shelf. “Just a poor old woman, just a Granny. Ah,” she exclaims, holding up an opaque cup in triumph. She holds it delicately, cradling it to her chest with both hands, like it holds something precious. “‘Granny Rags, Granny Rags,’ they say, those rowdy boys at the waterfront. But they’ll change, yes, they will.”

                She crouches to the floor with an ease that does not belong in her aged frame, and she dips two fingertips into the cup. Her fingers come away stained with red, and she begins to draw on the blank stone with wide, sweeping gestures. Her face is turned downward, following the lines of her fingers unerringly, despite the obvious cloud of blindness over her eyes.

                The entire exchange has done nothing to assuage Corvo’s growing unease. Carefully, he shifts his teacup and saucer off to one side, moving aside a plate holding the remains of several rotten pears. He brushes something smooth and metal, and his eyes widen as a faint curl of Void emanates from beneath an old newspaper. When he lifts it, he sees a bone charm sitting there, the usual singing oddly muted and quiet.

                “It’s nice, isn’t it?” Granny Rags interjects, cutting across his thoughts. She wets her fingers again, continuing to paint what looks to be an image of a rat with the dark red liquid. “You can have it, dearest. Take it. A present from your dear old Granny.”

                “Where did you find this?” he finds himself asking, even as he puts the bone charm in his bag beside the amassing collection within.

                “Why,” she says, as if this was a completely foolish question, “the Outsider gave it to me.”

                Corvo sits up a little straighter, his eyes widening. He looks down at this blind woman precisely drawing the branches of a tree in what he suspects is blood, noting for the first time that she wears dark gloves over both hands. “Have you-” he starts, thinks better of it, then changes his mind again. “Have you spoken to him?”

                “Oh,” she says, drawing fur on the image of the rat with tiny flicks of her finger tips, “not in many years, not me, no. Not since the birdies ate all the nasty, angry men.” Her expression shifts, goes almost soft and affectionate. “My sweet little birdies, such good birdies they are.”

                She looks up at him, blind eyes seeming to stare straight through him. “You know, I kept a journal once, for my poor, sweet husband. But it’s gone now, all gone, and I can’t have it back. You could get it for me, for your dear Granny, and I could give you a present.” She reaches into a pocket at her side, withdrawing a single bronze key. “For the Captain’s Chair, and the roofs beyond,” she says, like this means anything at all to him.

                Corvo briefly wonders what a blind woman would want with a book, but he doesn’t really want to upset this strange woman that feels so much more dangerous than she looks, so he says, “Where do you need me to go?”

                She smiles wide, her teeth shockingly perfect behind her creased lips. “Doctor Galvani, dear, don’t you remember? On Clavering Boulevard, with all of his blood and disease and rats. Go to Doctor Galvani, yes, and find my journal.” She puts the key back into her pocket, patting it once with a gloved hand. “Your present will wait right here, for when you come back.”

                Nodding, Corvo pushes back up to his feet, feeling the length of chain shift in his sleeve. As he turns to leave, Granny Rags begins humming under her breath, something that might be a whaler’s shanty, or maybe the tale of Jimmy Whitcomb Riley.

                He shivers, slightly, creeping back out into the rat-infested alley beneath Clavering, eyes tilted upward. Could she really be visited by the Outsider? Corvo knows he’s not the only one, certainly not, because he never would have otherwise heard the stories of witches and heretics and heathens. And, he remembers with a sick taste in his mouth, Jessamine’s assassins had powers similar to his own. That must have come from the Outsider too.

                He shakes his head, deciding to leave the thoughts and questions aside for now. He’ll have time later when Emily is safe.

                Granny Rags had said on Clavering, right? That’ll make avoiding the City Watch a little tricky. And there are Walls of Light up now, so he’ll have to either come from above or below to avoid the deadly reach of the electricity. With a gesture of his hand, he blinks up onto an outcropping of rock, and from there onto a low roof. He looks around with Dark Vision in his eyes, catching sight of a couple of men off to his left. Their muscular frames and the bulky shapes at their hips tell him that they are likely members of the Bottle Street Gang, and he frowns, blinking again up to a metal balcony. The smell of rot and decay assaults his senses, and he catches sight of several shrouded plague corpses, surrounded by buzzing flies. He turns and blinks up onto the roof opposite, holding back his gag reflex.

                He’s still not used to the sheer number of victims the plague has claimed. He knows there’s no way the Watch or the Lord Regent’s men could cope with the rising tide of bodies, but the thought of all these men and women and children, wrapped loosely in cloth as they putrefy in their own homes makes something like shame and sorrow mingled rise in Corvo’s chest.

                As is becoming the norm, he pushes the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand. If he remembers correctly, the buildings nearest the river house the more affluent residents of this district. That seems the most likely place to search for the home of this doctor.

                He follows the path he had used before, circling first from the rooftops, then to an external air vent, then along the underside of a billboard. He looks down at the street with Dark Vision, the crackling of the Wall of Light below him setting his teeth on edge. There are several guards posted along the Boulevard, but there are also several discarded piles of supplies, evidently abandoned en route to either the river or the Abbey. If need be, Corvo can hide behind or beneath those.

                He follows along the vent shaft, approaching a second floor balcony. As he passes, a guard on the street below comments to his fellow, “Hey, do you have anything to eat?”

                Corvo pushes open the balcony doors, and misses any response the other guard might have made. The room he enters is full of expensive furniture, the walls lined with paintings and the floor covered in rugs. A large safe lies against one wall, next to a finely carved wooden door. When he looks around with Dark Vision, he notices several guardsmen patrolling on the lower floor. Whoever owns this house certainly has the money to be a doctor; he’ll just have to check if he does have the right house.

                He wonders where Granny Rags’ journal might be kept. From his conversation with her, he can’t imagine what the contents of the book must be like; there could be anything from studies of natural philosophy to soliloquies about ‘the little birdies’ inside. Where would a rich doctor keep the ramblings of a mad Outsider worshipper?

                As he wonders, he moves toward a door at the end of the room, passing luxurious chairs and a stonework fireplace. There is a maid sweeping just outside the glass doors, so he doubles back, moving instead through the door near the safe. A chest lies open just on the other side of the door, holding a money pouch that seems to be bulging with coins. After a moment’s deliberation, Corvo pockets it, figuring a man with such expensive taste as the owner of this house could handle losing a little money.

                The hallway opens into a small room, where a single rat sits chewing noisily on what looks like the crusts of a piece of bread. Corvo spies an air duct off to one side, and, feeling inspired, he possesses the rat and slips inside. The duct curls slowly downward, his tiny rodent feet and claws scraping along the metal. It lets out into the kitchen, and he listens hard for approaching guards. He doesn’t hear footsteps, but he does hear frenzied shrieking of a large group of rats. Curiosity piqued, he approaches, shifting smoothly back into human form mid-stride. He pushes open a door and sees the door to a supply closet, a large window installed to reveal the space inside.

                There are dozens of rats in the room, far too many for the tiny space. They seem agitated, circling aimlessly and sniffing at the corners and the walls, seeming desperate for a way to escape.

                It’s looking more and more likely that this is Doctor Galvani’s house, because Corvo can’t see any reason why a civilian would keep a closet full of plague rats. A quick glance at a clipboard on the nearby table seems to confirm it; the paper is labeled ‘feeding log.’ He wrinkles his nose, noting the lines marked ‘human remains.’

                There are two keys hanging on a hook beside the door, and he takes the time to slide them onto his key ring, thinking they might be useful later. Written in delicate script along the stem of the keys are ‘Galvani Pantry’ and ‘Galvani Laboratory.’ So that’s one question answered.

                The room with the rats is probably the pantry, and the laboratory seems as good a place to start looking as any. He thinks it will be on one of the higher floors, if the roomful of rats is any indication of the type of research Doctor Galvani does.

                He turns around, verifying that the guards are still patrolling what must be the foyer, several walls away from him. He catches sight of some Health Elixir, and he drinks this one down, hoping to lessen the pain in his shoulder. The bleeding has already stopped, but it burns every time he moves. He hopes the pain-killing aspect of the elixir will help. Thinking ahead, he also takes out a vial of Remedy, alleviating the faint headache that had begun after his latest possession.

                He has to go back through the kitchen to get to the staircase, passing the air vent and the body of the dead rat. There is a tense moment when a guard draws uncomfortably close to the stairwell, keeping Corvo trapped in the kitchen, but eventually he can slip past, dodging the glowing yellow form of a maid on the second floor and heading upward to the third.    

                One watchman stands guard, here, staring at a glass display case holding many pieces of machinery. It is easy for Corvo to get an arm around his neck, the bone charm on his belt flaring to life and knocking the man unconscious nearly instantly. As he lowers the man gently to the floor, he sees a note pinned next to another set of double doors, through which he can see several glass tubes and jars  and other pieces of equipment. He’s found the laboratory. Thinking the note might hold some information he could use, he creeps forward to read.

_Dear Ms. Benton,_

_When cleaning my study, I ask that you constrain your efforts strictly on the floors. Please, at all costs refrain from attempting to clean or arrange my bookshelf. In fact, it would be best to keep away from it altogether. Otherwise, I'll have to reconsider the terms of your employment._

_Regards,_

_Dr. Galvani_

_P.S. Since I'll be out of the city for a few days, I've left next week's pay as well. The bank was closed, so I'm afraid it's short by half. You can count on me for the remainder next week of course._

                Corvo scoffs lightly, retrieving his ring of keys and unlocking the door. Clearly, there is something of value on or near the bookcase, perhaps even the journal Granny Rags sent him to find.

                The laboratory smells strongly of disinfectant, stinging his nose with the fumes. As he approaches the table, he catches sight of several strange liquids in various bits of machinery, and at least two rat fetuses suspended in something thick and viscous. Heavy-duty lights shine brightly from overhead, reflecting strongly off of the glasses and off of three large chalkboards along the walls. The boards all seem to hold detailed anatomical descriptions of creatures native to the waters around Dunwall, and he finds himself approaching the precise rendition of a whale. He had never really thought about the great beasts until now, treating them as just a part of the city landscape. But now, he looks at this drawing, pieces of the whale sectioned off for butchery or oil extraction, and something like guilt presses down on his throat. The whales are significant to the Outsider, aren’t they? What does the deity think of the way that Gristol’s economy has come to rely so heavily on their deaths?

                His eyes wander over the blackboard, and he notices a hastily drawn ‘287’ in one corner, the chalk obviously fresher here than on the rest of the drawing. He thinks of the safe on the second floor, and shrugs. If he doesn’t find Granny’s journal here, he can check there, as well.

                He comes across the bookshelf at the end of the room, and he stands before it, considering. Titles jump out at him, from Rat Behavior and Extermination to Sewer Capacity in the Month of Nets to the simply titled The Rat Plague. If Corvo hadn’t come across the pantry, this would give away what the good Doctor must be studying. But nothing looks to be something Granny might want or need, and he frowns. He really should have gotten more information from the strange old woman before he broke into the house.

                One book bears no title, and stands just a little too tall above the rest. Corvo goes to pick it up, and finds it stuck to the shelf. Curious, he pulls on it, and the entire bookshelf begins to swing outward, propelled by some kind of mechanism. There is a secret room behind, more brightly lit than even the laboratory. Pinned to some kind of operating table is the grotesque form of a rat, its soft belly split open and its organs exposed to the air. The scent emanating from it is horrible, and he presses a hand over his mouth and nose, hoping to block it out.

                Looking around, he spots a single book atop a cabinet, its cover solid and brown and stained with some dark liquid. When he goes to pick it up, something cold races up his spine, feeling very much like magic. He knows this is the book Granny wanted him to find before he opens it to read the tiny and scrawled words inside.

                _7th day of Seeds_

_Our voyage to Pandyssia begins tomorrow. My husband has already gathered the necessary men and materials, but we have to wait one more day to allow a storm to pass through... It seems the ocean will make no allowances even for a family such as ours. What a pity. I can only imagine the way the boat must feel beneath my feet, tossing and rocking on the waves. Oh, I can hardly wait to go!_

                He flips through the book curiously, noting the way the penmanship slowly fades further and further into illegibility. Charts and drawing begin to feature prominently, with little to no words marking explanations. He catches sight of a poem on a later page, and he reads.

                _A woman once lived in Redmoor_

_and she yearned for the world past her doors_

_for she dreamed of the Void_

_and of empires destroyed_

_so she fled to Pandyssian shores_

                He recognizes parts of the poem, from a long-ago time where the air was warm and heavy with the scent of grapes. But it’s a twisted version, pulled into darkness instead of levity, and it feels like a betrayal or a mockery of his early memories.

                Corvo silently puts the book into his bag, unwilling to read any further. Tales of Pandyssia have always made him slightly uneasy, and this account is no exception. He doesn’t want to watch as the speaker goes from her bright-eyed optimism into the madness and terror Pandyssia invariably seems to inspire, sitting helpless years too late to do anything to help.

                He doesn’t think of the way that Granny Rags had referred to this as _her_ journal, or of the strange, dangerous feeling he gets from her repetitive words or her broad smiles.

                Corvo leaves the secret room behind the bookcase, pulling a switch to close the door behind him. There is another balcony off to one side, and he slips through it, looking down at the street with Dark Vision. As he is coming to expect, none of the guardsmen look up as he blinks over to a vent shaft to trace the outline of the street, his footsteps barely making a sound as he moves. It is easy to return to Granny’s tunnel, blinking over a rooftop and dodging around a pair of Bottle Street thugs.

                Granny is not in the same place she was when he first saw her. She has moved further through the tunnel, leaving a trail of red sigils behind her, and she is now boiling something in a large copper saucepan. The fire is generating enormous quantities of smoke, but she doesn’t seem to mind or even notice, standing as she is with her back bowed, staring into the churning water with blank white eyes.

                Corvo clears his throat, waving feebly at the air before his face in an attempt to clear away the smoke. “I, uh, found the journal,” he says, retrieving the book and holding it out in front of him.

                She snatches it from his hand with surprising speed, rifling through the pages and opening to a large double-spread of more symbols, some identical to the ones drawn upon the floor. Her eyes move vaguely from side to side as if she is reading, but she can’t be, not blind as she is. “Good, good,” she says, seemingly more to herself than to Corvo, “Very good. Yes, this will do nicely.” She snaps the book closed with a thump, and only then does she turn to face her visitor. “I knew you’d find it, my good, brave man.”

                Something in her tone feels oddly condescending, like the way one might talk to a dog, or to a particularly slow child. Corvo stands stiffly in the smoke, growing more and more uncomfortable and wondering if he can just ask for the key and leave.

                “Yes, you’ve done very well,” Granny says, rubbing one hand over the other. Corvo notes with some suspicion that she is pressing her fingers to the back of her left hand, and his own hand flares once with instinctual magic. “Well enough for a birthday present, don’t you think?”

                With whip-like movements, she turns back to the pot, carelessly dunking her hand into the boiling water and retrieving something smooth and white. Corvo makes an abortive motion to stop her, far too late to be of any good, but she seems unharmed. She holds up her prize to him, a small smile on her face and steam curling from her fingers. “Take it, dearie. I’ve got plenty more.”

                Hesitantly, Corvo takes the gift, squinting through the stinging smoke. It’s a bone rune, he realizes, and it is far cooler than it has any right to be after spending time in the boiling water.

                “Ah, ah, yes, how could I forget,” Granny says, reaching into her pocket with a great flurry of motion. “Your promise,” she announces, holding up the bronze key. “For the Captain’s Chair,” she repeats, “to reach the Cat.”

                That catches Corvo’s attention. “The Golden Cat?” he asks, carelessly putting the rune in his bag.

                “Why, yes,” she says, pressing the key into his outstretched palm. “Why else would you need to go through such an old hotel? The little birdies tell me there’s nothing inside anymore, no, no nice things. But you don’t need things, do you, dearie?” she asks, already turning her back to him. She picks up a large length of metal and stirs whatever is in the pot, bringing several pieces of white bone to the surface of the water.

                The horrifically unsettled feeling has returned, and Corvo says nothing more, clenching the key tightly in his fist. He turns to leave, his eyes still watering from the smoke. He’ll drink a Spiritual Remedy once he gets to clear air to soothe his throat, and it won’t hurt to have full use of his magic without risk of exhaustion.

                Just as he comes to the mouth of the tunnel, a voice speaks behind him. He whirls, and Granny Rags is right there, small feathers floating to the ground on either side of her. “Dearie,” she says, as if she hadn’t inspired a small heart attack, “You’ll carry a message for me, won’t you?”

                Corvo nods, still recovering from his surprise. How could she have moved so quickly? She must really be Marked, and have some kind of teleportation magic like him.

                “Just tell him,” she says, and her voice carries the first trace of real emotion he has detected since he met her, something excited and bright lifting her words, “when you see him next, tell him it’s almost ready. You’ll tell him, won’t you?”

                “I will,” Corvo says, and he doesn’t have to wonder who ‘he’ is. There’s only one being who could attract the kind of fervor Granny is speaking with now.

                She smiles at him, and the mania leaves her expression and is replaced by that same unhinged look he has come to recognize. “Good,” she mutters. “Good, good, good.”

                Corvo turns and leaves this strange woman behind him, with all of her black magic and fixations. He takes a moment to collect himself beneath a bridge, one hand supporting his weight against a stone wall. His chest is heaving as if he has run a great distance, and he can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips and his joints. Trying to steady himself, he pulls out a vial of Remedy, downing it in several long drags, the blue liquid blessedly cool in his throat.

                Something dark inside him wonders if that kind of obsession is what he has to look forward too, years (or maybe only months) down the line. The type of devotion to a mysterious and apathetic god that drives him away from any and everything, leaving him to jealously collect bits of bone in the shadowed and filthy spaces of the world. The part that scares him is he can understand it, to some extent. The Outsider is nothing short of awe-inspiring, all loosely gathered power that could twist in any direction at a moment’s notice, to destroy, to create, to kill, to grant a second chance. Corvo understands just how easy it would be to drop everything and dedicate his entire being into pleasing this god, to gathering the sources of his power (from the _unworthy,_ says that same dark and angry thing), to look for sign and portents in everything, on the off chance that they might be disguised commands from the Void.

                It would be so, so easy.

                He straightens up, throwing one last glance to Granny’s tunnel somewhere in the distance behind him. Smoke is pouring liberally from the tunnel mouth, rising in hazy columns into the rapidly darkening sky. That is what he will not and cannot allow himself to become, not as long as Emily still needs him.

                _But what if she’s dead_ , something hisses. _What if they killed her as soon as they carried her away? Why bother keeping her alive, when she only stands in the way of the throne?_

                He pushes these thoughts away. Emily is still alive. She must be. If they had wanted her dead, she would have bled out onto the marble at her mother’s side. Besides, he had seen her drawing in his trip through the Void. This thought is encouraging; the Outsider is many things, tempter and judge and impassive observer, but he has never been known to lie.

                Carrying this faith in his heart, Corvo drops the empty vial to the street, pulling magic into his fist. He blinks up a stairway, weaving through the alleys back to Clavering Boulevard proper. He passes guardsmen and gang members alike unnoticed, nothing more than a flickering shadow on a rooftop.

                He closes his eyes, letting the world race by in howling wind and a thick rush of unreality, silently and swiftly moving onward to the shape of the Golden Cat in the distance.

                He knows there’s a way in, now, and that’s all he needs.

                Corvo lets his magic flare, nothing more than a quick flash of gold in the shadows, before that too is gone, vanishing in a burst of light, leaving nothing behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh the archive was messing up my format heavy-duty when I was posting this chapter. Any remaining mistakes will be edited out next week, when I get chapter five up.


	5. Chapter 5

                He finds the hotel with little trouble. Actually getting the door unlocked is another matter entirely, for the guards are still wandering the streets, and he’s not sure he’ll have the time to get the key into the lock.

                The thought reminds him of his newest power, and he looks down at his Marked hand. He hasn’t actually tried to slow time yet, so he’s not sure if it will be enough to get him inside the building without being seen. He has so many questions… By what rate is time slowed, how ‘long’ does it last, what would he even look like if he was seen while time was warped and strange… But he doesn’t have much at all to lose, so he holds the key tightly with his right hand, readying magic in his left.

                This magic feels very different from any he has tried before. His supernatural knowledge drives him to pull down his hand and twist, and it feels like time bends along with the arc of his wrist, sending out ripples that bring everything to a near standstill. Colors fade away, somewhat similar to the fuzzy view he gets while possessing animals. There is an element of _wrongness_ to everything he sees, like the light is hitting it from an opposite angle, or the shadows that stretch too large for their casters and reflect instead that which cannot be seen. When he takes a step, little bursts of light pop in front of his eyes, reminding him strongly of starlight in this strange gray darkness. He looks down the Boulevard to a patrolling guard, watching the way his legs move so slowly, like he is dragging his feet through molasses.

                But Corvo has dawdled long enough, and he darts out into the open, jamming the key into the locked door. It takes him a moment to get the aged lock to cooperate with his efforts, but he eventually gets it open, slipping inside to the dark and dusty place beyond. Time reasserts itself with a warping sound before he gets the door all the way closed, and he tenses as he nudges it shut, hoping none of the watchmen noticed. To be safe, he gets moving right away, heading toward the back of the building where he can see a staircase. Granny Rags had mentioned the rooftops, hadn’t she?

                He crosses the threshold into the stairwell, and he hears the ringing of yet another bone charm. It doesn’t take much effort to find it, lying next to a plague victim and a bare mattress. As he puts it away, he marvels at how _pervasive_ the magical artifacts seem to be. They’re everywhere, not just held by witches and madmen as the Overseers preach, but in nearly every building he has come across. He wonders if this surge in magic comes from superstitious attempts to ward off the plague, or if this level of witchcraft is typical, just hidden carefully from religious persecutors. Corvo had never noticed, back before, and he probably never would have if he could not hear the singing of the Void.

                He mounts another set of stairs, still thinking, when he hears a strange, muffled clattering. He freezes, thinking perhaps the building was home to a plague survivor, or maybe a weeper, when a huge wave of rats pours down from the upper landing, racing straight toward him. Corvo swears and turns back, taking the stairs two at a time and jumping down to the lower landing. The rats are hot on his heels, squeaking and shrieking alarmingly, and he thinks again of how it only takes one bite to contract the plague.

                He comes all the way back to the first floor, and he clambers up onto an unlit furnace, incredibly thankful for its smooth metal surface. He dislodges a pistol from the top and it hits the floor with a sharp thud, before it is quickly covered by a writhing mass of rats.

                The rats swarm and horde around the furnace, but their dull claws cannot find purchase on the metal, and Corvo remains safely out of their reach. He lets out a short relieved sigh, drawing the Overseer’s sword out of its band. He has dealt with this before, particularly during those last few months before his journey all around the Isles, and he knows he can do it again. With short, precise swings, he begins culling rats from the swarm, leaving broken bodies among the thrashing mass of rodents. Bull rats like these favor attacking in large groups, and if he can just kill enough, they might disperse and leave him in relative safety.

                As he hacks away at the group before him, he spares a single bitter thought that he shouldn’t have been surprised the pathway suggested by a madwoman was overrun with deadly carriers of the plague. Really, he should have known better. Finally, the rat population begins to dwindle, the remaining creatures slipping and sliding in the blood and viscera of their brethren. After a while, even these rats turn and flee, maybe six or seven left out of the dozens-strong swarm. Corvo gives himself a moment to catch his breath, wiping the blade on the cloth of a covered couch.

                The journey to the top floor is much less exciting after that, but he keeps his sword ready just in case. A door at the end of the staircase leads out to a frankly pitiful balcony, and easy access to the roof of a neighboring building. He follows this around a corner, pulling himself up on to an air-circulating unit to get a better view of the land around him. The Golden Cat is big and bright in front of him, its gardens still flowering, its walls still mostly white. But even in the falling night, when Corvo assumes the majority of their business is done, the courtyard lies abandoned, not even a rat to bring life to the dust.

                The doors don’t seem to be locked, though, and one has drifted just slightly open without the typical flow of courtesans and clients to close it again. He also notices several propped-open windows on upper floors, revealing glimpses of lush red carpeting inside. There are roofs to his right, on the other side of a small street, and they seem to lead him close enough to get him inside.

                When he pulls up his magic to attempt to blink, the column of light does not reach all the way to the distant roof. Corvo relaxes his hand, letting the power die before he can use it. It seems he’ll have to work his way through his rather large pile of bone charms and runes, now.

                He moves away from the edge of the roof, sitting and leaning against the brick wall of a neighboring building. The artifacts spill from his bag with a rattle and with thick clouds of Void, singing strongly for the binding touch of his blood. His skin splits easily beneath the Overseer blade, red running smooth and slow. He’ll have to wrap the cut, or take another dose of Health Elixir afterward, he thinks. The runes immediately go to extending his blink, leaving him with a mess of five deactivated bone charms. These he bloodies all at once, closing his eyes and waiting for the cryptic hints the heart will offer as to their effects.

                The heart does not disappoint, seeming to whisper inside his head as soon as blood meets bone. ‘ _Two of these are protective,’_ it says, _‘resisting the harms of fire or plague. Two grant advantages in swordplay; the first adds speed to your strikes, and the other will weaken an enemy’s blade. The last will allow your body to directly channel the Void, enhancing your powers and strengthening your spirit._ ’

                He picks out the last bone charm, noting the way it seems to give of just a shade darker miasma than the others. Given how strongly he relies on his powers anyway, it seems a waste to bother with any of the others. He is confident enough in his swordplay, and he plans to avoid fire and plague altogether. He goes to put this last, Void channel charm on his belt, and at once, pain flares in his temple. Flinching, he draws his hand back, bring the charm along with him, and the pain ceases. So he can only have three active at once for now, he realizes.

                With a brush of his fingertips to reaffirm what his current charms do, he eventually decides to remove the bone charm that gives him speed in the shadows. After all, speed is nothing when held against teleportation. Void channel slides easily into place, and swift shadow goes back into his bag with all the others, rattling around in his bag against vials of plague preventative and loose coins. The sound thankfully quiets when he buckles the bag shut, returning to the peak of the roof.

                The bleeding has slowed by now, clotting and clinging to the edges of the cut. Corvo figures he can chance leaving it as-is, tucked behind the sleeves of the Overseer jacket. When he takes another dose of elixir in the morning, it should take care of any lingering ache or potential infection.

                He turns his attention to his magic instead, the Mark glowing bright. To his pleasure, he finds that he can reach the roof he had aimed at easily now, with room to spare. He blinks and lets himself fly, gasping harshly against the press of unreality. He lands lightly, as if he had only taken a single stride rather than move more than fifteen meters, and he cannot help the faint smile on his face. When the world rushes back in, he hears the faint crackling pop of a bone rune somewhere in the building below him, and he hesitates, thinking. Magic has proven far too useful to pass up, so he slings himself over the edge of the gutter, dropping with quite a clang to an external vent shaft. He walks a little ways to an open window, and he slides inside, retrieving the rune from where it had been casually placed on a table. The floor has fallen away in one corner, so he does not linger, leaning out of the window and blinking back up to the top of the roof.

                He follows the path of the buildings around the edge of the courtyard, shifting to a vent shaft when the roofs run out, and he ducks inside the wide-open window, Dark Vision changing the colors into browns and yellows and oranges. For a moment, the building looks as deserted as he had feared, and he panics, afraid that he has lost Emily’s trail again. But as he moves from the windowsill onto the carpeted floor, yellow figures shine into existence to his right, some on floors above, some below. Most seem to be congregated below, including several men, gesticulating angrily at a woman with her hair pulled up into an elaborate bun. They seem very agitated, so he heads upward, hoping to avoid them.

                Another woman shifts to the side upstairs, revealing another yellow shape hidden behind her. Corvo feels his heart jump up into his throat; the newcomer is small, and curled tightly into a ball, some distance away from the others. Emily.

                He has to pause at the top of the stairs, pressing himself against the wall. There are at least six women in the room adjacent to Emily’s, some standing and talking to each other, some sitting or leaning back against the walls. He can only hope that there is a door or something keeping them from seeing the hallway, or his rescue attempt will end before it can begin.

                Corvo steps tentatively past the doorframe, completely relieved to see that a shut door separates him from the half-dozen or so women he can see with his Dark Vision. He can hear them speaking indistinctly through the walls, their voices subdued and concerned. They must be extremely worried; Corvo doesn’t know how well a brothel could prepare for an outbreak of the plague, but the outlook cannot be good. The faster he gets Emily out of here, the better.

                Faintly, he can hear dark magic singing from the room the women are gathered within. One of the girls probably has an artifact hidden away somewhere inside. There’s no chance he’s going to be able to get it, so he passes it by, ignoring the involuntary guilty pang in his gut.

                Emily seems to have a room all her own; the sight is reassuring, but also somewhat sad. She must have been isolated and alone these long months. The door opens quietly under his hand, and he walks inside, shutting it behind him. He sees Emily herself curled in a corner, her head pressed into her knees, tools for drawing scattered all around her on the floor. She’s wearing the clothes she had been the day her mother died; for her sake, Corvo hopes she hasn’t been wearing them all this time.

                He crouches down a little ways inside the door, his bag settling loosely on his hip. Emily hasn’t looked up, or for that matter given any indication that she has noticed his presence at all. Lowly, letting a smile spread over his face, he calls, “Emily?”

                Her head snaps upright, her hair whipping around her chin. “Who-” she begins, her eyes narrowed and her movements hesitant. He can pinpoint the exact moment she comprehends what she is seeing, because her face lights up and she scrambles up into a crouch. “Corvo!” she gasps, and then she is on her feet, running toward him. He has to catch her under the arms and bleed off her momentum into a spin, startling a soft laugh out of his chest. He pulls her into a hug, burying his face in her hair and closing his eyes. She’s warm, and safe, and in his arms again. They’re going to be alright.

                His Dark Vision fades as Emily presses her nose into his neck, whispering against his skin, “They told me you were dead.”

                The emotion in her voice pulls at his heart, reminding him that she’s just a child, and that as hard as things have been for him, things have been just as bad – if not worse – for her. So he squeezes her shoulders, drawing back slightly to look into her eyes now that he can see them without the overwhelming yellow. She looks so much like her mother it nearly hurts, biting her lip in the exact way Jessamine had tended to do, whenever she was faced with a particularly difficult problem. “Well, you can see I’m not,” he says, trying for light, coming out closer to choked with emotion. “We can get out of here.”

                She rocks back on her heels, eyes wide. “How?” she asks, sounding amazed. “I tried to get away twice, but Prudence keeps all the exits locked.”

                Corvo has a strong flash of little Emily, creeping down the stairs in the middle of the night, running for a door that would only stay shut and crush her chances of escape. He says, “We can go the way I came in. There’s a pathway…”

                He trails off, realizing another aspect he had not considered. He never thought of how Emily might react to his new magic. She was raised the daughter of an Empress, after all, and she sat through more Abbey sermons than any child her age that wasn’t an Initiate. No matter how Jessamine had tried to protect her from the darker myths and legends, she must have heard stories about the Outsider, and about the cruelty and madness that grew in those that worshipped him.

                Emily looks up at him, and she smiles, derailing his train of thought. “Let’s go then,” she says, her voice regaining a little of the familiar brightness. Corvo hopes that’s not the last glimpse of it he’ll get to see.

                “We have to be quiet,” he warns, resigning himself to dealing with the magic problem when it comes.

                She nods firmly, tilting her chin up in defiant confidence. Corvo smiles at her, letting one hand linger on her shoulder for a moment, before he drops into a crouch, turning to the door.

                His Dark Vision has long since faded, but he doesn’t want to call it up in case the whispering he hears upon activation can be heard by those around him; it will be easier if he forces the initial surprise on Emily somewhere away from high concentrations of people, somewhere where they have the time for any negative reaction she might have. He creeps out into the hallway, listening hard for any change in the volume or tone of the discussion happening next door. When he thinks they’re in the clear, he beckons for Emily, and the two of them slip into the stairwell.

                Voices rise from the large atrium through the archways, and Corvo reaches out for Emily’s hand, leading her around the tricky corner going from the floor to the windowsill. If he looks over his shoulder, Corvo can actually see two women walking up the large curving staircase, and he hopes desperately that they don’t look up and see them, not when they’re so close to getting out.

                They make it out onto the ledge, and from there onto the vent shaft. Emily looks visibly nervous at being so high off of the ground, but she bravely follows after him, one hand pressed to the wall for balance. Corvo helps her around another corner, and then they’re on a rooftop, staring across the wide open space of the side street.

                The darkness of the night and the lack of light down on the street will help hide them, so Corvo thinks he can chance trying to explain himself. He gestures Emily closer to the center of the roof, sitting on the spine of tiles along the top. She follows instantly, and offers her hand to him, squeezing his fingers as if to soothe herself.

                “What is it?” she asks, voice barely more than a whisper. “Don’t we need to climb down?”

                “Not exactly,” he replies. He takes a breath through his nose in an attempt to calm his suddenly racing nerves, letting his eyes drift closed. He doesn’t want to ruin this. He doesn’t want her afraid of him. “You-” he starts, “you know I’d never do anything to hurt you,” and it sounds a little too much like a question. He holds back a wince. What a good way to put her at ease, he thinks.

                But Emily just squeezes his hand tighter. She replies, “Of course you wouldn’t.” The amount of faith in her voice is both humbling and a little frightening, because what will he do if he loses this, if he loses the favor of a girl he adores so fervently?

                So he flexes his left hand where it lies on the rooftop, power a reassuring hum up and down his spine. There’s no delicate way to say it, so he takes one last breath, and he says, “I can use magic.”

                She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t flinch, or recoil, or even gasp. Her fingers tighten in his, and she asks, measured and deliberate, “What do you mean?”

                He clings to her hand like a lifeline, his eyes cast downward at the rooftop. “How much do you know about the Outsider?” he asks, his tone meticulously level.

                Corvo can feel it as she stiffens, one of her feet slipping from its place tucked up inelegantly beneath her. “You’re a witch? All this _time_?” she demands, and it’s so much worse than he feared. She’s not scared, or angry. She sounds so _hurt_ , like he has let her down. And he has, hasn’t he? All her life, she’s heard that witches are evil, and cruel, and against everything her mother ever stood for. And now Corvo is one of them, bringing everything she has ever learned and all of her shared memories with him into question.  But still she doesn’t release his hand, and Corvo takes that as a sign that he hasn’t lost her entirely.

                _She isn’t yours to lose_ , he reminds himself. Even if she was, it wouldn’t matter. Keeping her safe is so much more important than keeping himself in her good graces.

                “I wasn’t before. But… I am now,” he replies.

                Emily sits motionless and silent for a long moment, her little fingers still intertwined with his. Corvo counts his heartbeats as she thinks, one-two, one-two, one-two. He just has to get her somewhere safe, he thinks, and then if she wants him gone, he will go. He can do that for her, if that’s what she needs.

                A tug on his hand draws his attention, and he looks up into Emily’s brown eyes. There is a shy, nervous smile on her face. “You’re still Corvo,” she says. “Right?”

                Overwhelming joy and gratitude overcomes him in a thunderous wave. He cannot stop himself from crushing her to his side, closing his eyes and pressing his face into her hair. “Of course,” he murmurs, even as she twists to hug him back. “Of course I still am.”

                “Then I trust you,” she murmurs into his shoulder, nothing but broad smiles and warm eyes.

                Corvo is so, so grateful for this brave girl, for the trust she has for him, for the love he can feel swelling in his heart at her words. No matter what happens, no matter how bad things may get, at least they have each other.

                He gently guides Emily to her feet, leading her back to the edge of the roof. “I’ll need to pick you up,” he murmurs, offering her his right arm. She slides her arms around his neck easily, and his mind flashes to moments years ago, where he carried the sleepy princess up to her room in Dunwall Tower. He readjusts his grip around her to free his left hand, very aware of her eyes on the plainly visible Mark. “Don’t be scared,” he says, as his Mark flares golden bright.

                The night rushes past in whirls of air and the sting of cold, and then they are on the other roof. Corvo waits for the world to twitch back into reality, and waits further for Emily to gasp and try to catch her breath. He remembers very well the way it had felt to have the air pressed right out of his chest, the first time he had tried this. “Are you alright?” he asks, readjusting her weight.

                “Yes,” she coughs, her hands fisted in the fabric of his Overseer jacket. “Yes,” she repeats.

                Corvo doesn’t press her further. He needs to decide where they should go. He doesn’t want to stay anywhere nearby, not when the entire Distillery District is likely to go under lockdown once the Lord Regent realizes Emily has escaped him. The best bet would probably be back in the Old Port District, where they aren’t likely to run across the Watch or civilians. But it took him the better part of the day just to travel from there to here, and he doesn’t want to make Emily any more uncomfortable than she has to be. An entire night without sleep, dodging guards and rats, is no way to treat her. And, he realizes with a sinking feeling, he can’t go back the way he came. Even if he can make the necessary blinks to the high, high rooftops, he wormed his way through the quarantine walls as a rat. Emily wouldn’t be able to come with him.

                He’ll have to find another way. Hitching Emily’s legs higher around his waist, he follows the path of the rooftops around the Golden Cat’s courtyard, approaching the Wrenhaven. If he remembers correctly, he had seen the track for a railcar, and there is probably a way to transport supplies that he can use, if not a convenient gap.

                He comes to the end of the roofs, staring down at a several story drop. “I’m going to blink us down,” he warns, magic welling in his fist.

                This time, Emily turns and watches, looking down at the street far below. She doesn’t seem afraid, but she doesn’t seem exactly relaxed, either, so Corvo just closes his eyes and lets the magic take him, falling weightlessly toward the cobblestones. The magic cuts out about a meter above the ground, and he bends his knees to absorb the shock, protectively curling his arm around Emily’s back.

                She seems much better prepared for the flickering fakeness of the world, and her inhale upon the reassertion of the atmosphere is more even this time. Corvo can see her looking up at the rooftop they had come from out of the corner of his eye as he follows the metal track. It comes quite close to both the waterfront and to the balconies of the Cat, and he instinctively tries to stay as close to the walls as he can. Eventually, he comes to what he had been hoping for in a large metal gate, a good two meters of clearance between the topmost piece of metal and the bottom of an archway. He gestures up at it with his head, and Emily nods, her grip on his shoulders tightening.

                Corvo lands lightly on the other side of the gate, and he lets Emily down to walk again. Though he may be back in top form due to the Outsider’s magic, carrying her the entire way across the city doesn’t seem reasonable or possible. She stays close behind him, eyes darting from side to side. He leads her down the first alley he finds, wanting to get away from the exposure of the waterfront.

                He casts Dark Vision, looking up at the buildings around him, noting the many sleeping figures within. Emily doesn’t react to the whispering, and he doesn’t know if it’s because she can’t hear it, or because she expects it. He doesn’t ask. The night shifts of the City Watch have begun, and he can see a couple of guardsmen chatting somewhere through a building to his left.

                With a tiny gesture to Emily behind him, he continues down another narrow alley, his eyes angled upward, hoping for a balcony or pipe to get him up to the roofs. He doesn’t find one, and soon he comes to a wider street, a temporary guard station near the mouth of his alley. There are more members of the Watch wandering up and down the road, thoroughly blocking their progress. The street makes a left turn after a while, and the lights have burned out, yet to be replaced. If Corvo can get there, he might find himself another alley, or finally a way upward. He crouches and whispers to Emily, “We need to blink again,” and she climbs into his arms with no fuss. He waits for her to take a breath, and then calls the magic, the world going strange and blurred around them, and then they are beneath an unlit streetlamp, watching a guard walking further away from them.

                There’s another side road, and Corvo hurries down it, keeping an eye on the guards until they fade from his Dark Vision. He lets Emily down again and they continue weaving their way through the back streets, moving toward the shape of the moon rising on the horizon.

                Emily makes a startled noise behind him and Corvo’s hand flies to his sword, spinning to face the threat. But it’s just a pair of rats, nosing at pieces of paper and cloth and looking for food. Corvo relaxes just slightly, and he says, “It’s alright. They won’t hurt you.”

                She doesn’t look convinced, but follows him regardless, staying close to his back.

                The notes signifying an announcement sound from a nearby loudspeaker, and Corvo stops in his tracks to listen. “Attention Dunwall Citizens. Anyone with information pertaining to the death of High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell is to report to the City Watch for immediate questioning. In this time of spiritual crisis, the Overseers have initiated the Feast of Painted Kettles until a new High Overseer is chosen. May the High Overseer's spirit fade and merge with the Cosmos.”

                He has to fight the urge to sneer as he begins walking again, glancing behind him once at Emily. He’d much rather the High Overseer’s spirit suffer eternal torment for his hand in Jessamine’s death. Still, at least he now knows that Campbell’s death has been brought to the attention of the Lord Regent. That might change any security he is to come across.

                Soon, the huge smokestacks of the workhouses come into sight. Corvo hadn’t realized they had crossed back into the Metalworking District, because they hadn’t really passed a quarantine wall. Then again, since both districts were populated and comparatively free of the plague, the need for harsh divisions must be much less than, say, around the Flooded District. They might have avoided the wall simply by avoiding the main streets.

                Emily is breathing a little heavily behind him, evidently tired from their flight halfway through the city. Corvo has to remember she’s just a child, high-born at that, and that he can’t push her the same way he can push himself. He leads the two of them to a corner of an alley, motioning for her to stop. She obeys gratefully, leaning against a brick wall and probably dirtying the white fabric of her blouse. Corvo offers her the vial of water he had been saving, and she takes it with a nod, pulling the cap free. Casting Dark Vision to keep watch, Corvo realizes this is another thing he needs to remember; they’ll need daily doses of elixir, and he only has four with him. Unless they want to keep moving and keep looting abandoned houses for resources, they’ll have to find a reliable supply. Corvo knows that a black market for elixir had sprung up almost immediately, but if he could even find them, would they be willing to trade with him? A criminal is one thing, the man wanted for the death of the Empress is another matter entirely.

                He looks down at his borrowed jacket, and remembers the men Martin had mentioned. A group like that had to be well-supplied. Corvo is just now realizing how poorly he had planned, how he doesn’t know where to get food, or clothes, or even a place to stay. His thoughts have been consumed with _save Emily_ and of revenge on the men who had killed Jessamine. He has lived as Lord Protector since he was eighteen years old, and the memories of worrying about surviving until the next day are distant and faded. He’s so unprepared for this, and he’s not sure he can do it alone.

                He knows he can keep Emily safe from the men trying to hurt her. In this, he is completely confident, and perhaps rightly so. But he knows that it won’t be the life Emily deserves, nor a life remotely pleasant. He needs a place where she can be sheltered and protected while he goes and dismantles the regime built on blood and murder. Would Martin’s group be the right choice? To be fair, he doesn’t really have anywhere else to turn. He had gained the reputation as the silent shadow over Jessamine’s shoulder during his time as Royal Protector, not really as a personality of his own. He hadn’t minded, at the time, because protecting the Empress and her daughter _had_ been all that he needed to do. But now, his lack of allies is a glaring gap in his defenses. He has nowhere to go.

                Emily taps his elbow, handing him the empty vial and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Any choice he needs to make will affect her too, he reminds himself. He’ll have to find a safe place for them to rest, and then he can talk about it with her.

                When Corvo slips the vial back into his bag, he brushes the heart. It is beating against his fingers, not wildly, but insistently, telling him that magic is somewhere nearby. He pauses, looking down at his hand, thinking. Most of the artifacts he has found have been in abandoned locations, away from prying eyes, and that might give them a place to rest until morning. And he knows he needs the magic anyway, with the way that events seem so stacked against him. But his magic has unsettled Emily, and throwing the reality of his situation in her face again so soon might not be the smartest idea.

                “What’s wrong?” she asks, cutting across his thoughts.

                He hesitates, studying her face. There’s nothing to be gained from lying to her, though, so he says, “There’s something nearby that can help me. It’s magic, and if that bothers you, I can just-”

                “Corvo,” she interrupts, and there’s a smile on her face. “It’s alright. Let’s go get it.”

                Corvo smiles too, more at the warmth in her voice than at anything else. He pauses again before actually drawing out the heart, and he warns, “You might not want to look at this.”

                She ducks her head, taking his free hand and watching the ground. Corvo feels such affection for her, this brave, brave girl, willing to trust him even after everything has gone all sick and twisted. The heart is heavy in his left hand, Emily’s fingers woven with his right, and he moves further down the alley, heading for the source of magic.

                They have to dodge another group of guards, doubling back slightly and taking a second path, rather than attempt to sneak through a minefield of watchmen. Eventually, the heart directs Corvo upward, and he sees a balcony with wide double doors hanging open. He puts the heart away, confident he can track down the item from here with the singing of the Void alone, and he reaches for Emily. “We have to teleport again,” he says, and she nods, gripping his shoulders tight with both hands.

                The building seems deserted, and he sets Emily back down on her feet, looking around with Dark Vision in his eyes. There are a few rats on a lower floor, but as he moves further down the hallway, he finds that the stairwell has been bricked off. The rats won’t be making it up here any time soon.

                He turns a corner and violet light spills across the floor. He tenses a little at this, wishing Emily’s first brush with the supernatural wasn’t something as blatant as a shrine to the Outsider. The altar itself is tucked into a space evidently intended to house bookcases, because there are scattered volumes and bits of wood all across the floor. The violet backing of the shrine has been pinned in such a way that it looks like it is climbing up over the walls and ceiling, the golden embroidery glinting eerily in the light of several whale oil lamps. Some of the lamps have broken, spilling blue-white iridescence over the boards of the wooden floor.

                Corvo feels Emily stop dead in the doorway. He gently extricates himself from her grip, kneeling down to look her in the eye. “You can stay here,” he says, “or go further back. You don’t have to watch.”

                She shakes her head. “I’m alright,” she says, moving back and pressing her spine to the doorframe, gripping the wood tightly enough to stain her knuckles white. She doesn’t seem inclined to move.

                Corvo gives her one last look, before he turns and faces the shrine. Now that his thoughts aren’t on Emily, the hissing and popping of the rune is enormous in his ears, seeming to press inward and curl among his thoughts. He steps forward and lifts the rune from the shrine, and the world bends and bleeds black and the Outsider is there, Void and shadow curling affectionately around his shoulders.

                Corvo spares a thought to perhaps looking over his shoulder to check on Emily, but it seems not only rude but completely foolhardy to draw attention to the young Empress in the presence of this deity. So he remains still, watching the shadows dance, his Mark burning on his skin.

                “You seek my shrines with such loyalty,” the Outsider muses, staring down at him. “How easily you find them, and how faithfully you take my runes. There are few that take as well to the Mark as you have, my dear.”

                “Thank you,” Corvo replies. The words feel too familiar in his mouth, and he thinks to add ‘My Lord,’ or some other designation of title, but they all fall flat behind his teeth. There is no word for what the Outsider is to Corvo. Any attempt to label it would only serve to mock it and make it twisted, so he says nothing.

                Black eyes meet his, gleaming with satisfaction. But the Outsider remains silent, unnervingly so, floating gently in the air above his shrine. Corvo suddenly feels himself bursting with questions, about his situation, if the building is safe, if the rats or weepers can get in, if they can stop and spend the night. He wants to ask about Martin’s group, if they can be trusted, what their motives are, whether they will shelter them both. But he remembers that the Outsider insisting he does not interfere, only allows for his chosen to make decisions on their own, so he bites his tongue, clenching tight to the rune in his hand.

                “You continue to surprise me,” the Outsider says. “Campbell lies dead, and the Overseers have been thrown into chaos. Little Emily has escaped her prison, following your every step.” He gestures with one hand, rings of white and black shining on his fingers. “She has noticed the blood on your shirt.”

                Corvo looks down himself, eyeing the large and browning stains across his front and sides. They have long since dried, but their source is unquestionable. It brings Emily’s willingness to jump into his arms into a whole new light.

                “And still,” the Outsider continues, “you march onward. You think of Hiram Burrows. You think of Emily returned to the throne. Is it justice you seek? Or revenge?” He smiles, and there is nothing friendly in the expression. “You don’t even know yourself.”

                It’s somewhat disconcerting, knowing that his deepest worries and secrets are so easily read, but he surprises even himself when he realizes he isn’t afraid. It’s not trust he feels for the Outsider, not entirely, not when he sometimes sees images of gnashing teeth out of the corner of his eyes when the god speaks into the darkness, but it is something close, something that reassures him that here, at least, he will not be hurt. The Outsider just wants to _know_ , to learn, to absorb everything as thoroughly as the Void whence he came. Though it is unnerving, it is also relieving in a way, to know that there will be nothing but truth and knowledge between them, no misconceptions forcing Corvo into something he never wants to be. Here, in front of the god of the sea and darkness, he himself is enough, no need for titles or categories. Here he is not the Royal Protector, or the Serkonan, or the bastard son with no future before him. Here, he _is_ , and that is enough.

                The Outsider watches him, his face unreadable. After a long moment, he says, “You will not be found if you stay here. The man who built my shrine fled to Tyvia in the early days of the plague, and none have dared to approach this house since.”

                Corvo recognizes the words for the gift they are, and a true smile spreads over his face. “Thank you,” he says again. He closes his eyes, letting the feeling of the writhing darkness and frozen Void spread over his skin. When he opens them again, the Outsider is gone, and he is staring at violet fabric splayed across the walls.

                “Corvo?”

                He turns and Emily is right next to him, much closer than he had expected. She is studying him intently, eyes darting over his face. “Are you-” she starts, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Are you back?”

                He can feel his eyebrows rising at the question, and he asks, “What do you mean?”

                Emily bites her lip. “You weren’t moving,” she says. “I don’t think you were even _breathing_. You didn’t answer when I called your name. I was worried.”

                He pauses, looking back into Emily’s eyes and reading the fear she had understated. He hadn’t known what she would see as he conversed with the Outsider, and frankly some part of him is glad she hadn’t seen the god for herself. There is an intensity and viciousness to the Outsider that he doesn’t think she should be exposed to.

                Corvo gently takes her by the hand and leads her away from the room with the shrine. “We’ll stop here for the night, alright?” he asks.

                She nods, still watching him hesitantly. Corvo directs her into a bedroom they had passed as they had first come inside, gesturing her to the bed. At least this one has pillows and a comforter. “Get some sleep,” he suggests. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

                She sits down on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. “Where are we going to go, Corvo?” she asks, sounding completely exhausted.

                Corvo’s heart goes right out to her, and he kneels again, looking up into her face. “I’m not entirely sure,” he admits, thinking that the truth would be the best thing here. “There’s someone that might help us in the Port District. I met him when I was coming to find you.” He plucks at the shoulder of his jacket with one hand. “This is from him. I was thinking we should see if he and his friends are any good tomorrow, and if they are, we can stay with them for a while.”

                “What if they’re not?” she asks quietly, eyes cast to the floor. “Any good.”

                “Then we’ll figure something else out,” he replies firmly. “We can be careful. We’re not going to let the bad guys get to us, right? If we don’t like them, we can just leave and go somewhere else.”

                She nods, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. After a long moment, she asks, “Do they know you’re a witch?”

                “No,” Corvo says, “They don’t.”

                Emily looks up to meet his gaze, and there is a gleam in her eyes that is a little too hard to belong to the girl he left behind those six months ago. She says, “Don’t tell them. They don’t need to know.”

                Corvo nods too. He had planned on hiding that particular aspect of himself from his potential allies anyway. “Get some sleep,” he repeats, patting her once on the shoulder. He rises to his feet, and he says, “If you need anything at all, just call for me, alright? I’ll be right down the hallway.”

                Emily nods again, already pulling her shoes off of her feet. When Corvo turns to leave, she asks, in a very quiet voice, “Will you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep?”

                Voice gone soft with affection, he replies, “Of course.”

                Dutifully, he sits back down, leaning against a wall and facing the only door. Emily curls on her side on the bed, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders. She murmurs, “Goodnight, Corvo.”

                “Goodnight, Emily,” he responds, a smile on his face.

                It doesn’t take long for her eyes to drift closed, exhausted as she is from their rush across the city. Soon, her breathing evens and slows, and he knows she has fallen asleep. Quietly, he climbs back up to his feet, looking down at her tiny form curled beneath the covers. Protectiveness surges within him, and he bows low to press a light kiss to her forehead. She shifts slightly, and he draws away, heading back to the hallway.

                He closes the door gently behind him, allowing himself a moment to breathe out and close his eyes. There had been a couch in the room with the shrine, and it should work as a bed for the night. He also has two runes now, and that should be enough for another type of magic.

                He sits down heavily on the couch, pulling off his boots. His feet are rather painful, wrinkled horribly from nearly twenty-four hours in such a damp environment. He presses his thumbs into the ball and bridge of his feet, wincing at the sensation. Hopefully there are dry shoes that can fit him somewhere in this house, and maybe a change of clothes for himself and Emily. Now that he’s aware of the blood on his jacket, he wants it off and gone, especially if he has to spend any more time carrying around young Empresses.

                The whalebone runes gleam uncannily in the violet light, the dark aura they emit distorting small pockets of air into night sky speckled with stars. Corvo cuts his arm again, parallel to the first slice. The runes glow bright when he smears blood across their surfaces, exploding into a cloud of dust to hover in front of his eyes. Corvo takes in the knowledge they offer, familiar now, in promises of speed or blood in his teeth or melted bodies or a deeper and better Dark Vision. He considers the last, thinking of how often he uses the power anyway. He might as well. The cloud of rune dust swirls and flows downward to his skin, making his Mark flare bright and eerie in the low violet light.

                When electricity stops crackling inside his skin, he pulls magic into his fist and casts Dark Vision, eager to see the changes. Many things remain the same, and he can see Emily on her side in the bed, glowing yellow through the wall. But he also sees some indistinct green shapes, and one blue object that looks like a switch through a door past the Outsider shrine. Curious, he stands, walking barefoot around scattered lanterns and books.

                The door opens to reveal a kitchen, and the green objects are hidden behind cabinet doors. He pulls one open, and even through the light that the Dark Vision generates, he recognizes the tins of whale meat and jellied eels. The updated power shows him _food_ , and he could almost laugh with relief. That will make the coming days so much easier.

                He faces the blue object, and it turns out to be the switch for a gas stove. When he twists it experimentally, tiny flames light beneath the burners, burning clean and pure. He can cook something for himself and Emily in the morning, without the hassle of starting a wood fire.

                When he goes to move back to the couch, he catches sight of his bag out of the corner of his eye. The heart still glows distinctly yellow from within, but just about everything else is shaded green. Not just the hagfish, he notices, but also the vials of elixir, the bone charms, the spools of wire, and the coins. This power is incredibly useful; why in the Void hadn’t he chosen it before?

                The couch beckons him from across the room, offering pillows and warmth. He sets his bag down at one end, sliding off the active bone charms, his belt, and the Overseer’s harness. He keeps his sword in easy reach, tilted upright against the wall nearby, in case he needs it in a hurry. Corvo stretches when all of this is done, flexing his fingers and toes and rolling his neck. This day has been long, almost unbearably so, but he has Emily now. He doesn’t have to worry that something horrible is happening to her, anymore, and he doesn’t have to despair that he can’t help her. She is safer here, and it eases a stress that he hadn’t realized had been weighing on his shoulders.

                Tomorrow, they will cross the rest of the Metalworking District and see just what Martin has to offer at the Hound Pits Pub. But for now, Corvo lets himself fall onto the couch, curling his arm around one of the decorative pillows. He shifts until the chain still tucked up one sleeve stops pressing uncomfortably into his skin, and he closes his eyes.

                He falls asleep with the violet light of the Outsider shrine glowing past his eyelids, melting the world into scenes of water and shadow. He doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that we're only seeing things from Corvo's perspective, and only seeing his guesses at other people's thoughts. He's not always right~
> 
> Aaand we've officially passed fifty pages. And we haven't even really finished the third mission. I am categorically incapable of writing shortfic.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

 

                Corvo wakes when the first light of dawn comes over the horizon, shining in through a crack in the wall he hadn’t noticed the night before. The sunlight seems to stab at his retinas, and irritably, he rolls to his feet, scrubbing a hand over his face. He blinks the bleariness away, opening his eyes. He is greeted with the sight of the altar to the Outsider, and memories of the previous day come rushing back. Standing and taking a moment to stretch, he moves down the hallway, opening Emily’s door a crack and peeking inside. Her eyes are still closed, the comforter tangled all around her legs. Corvo smiles, and shuts the door again, glad that she is at least comfortable enough to sleep.

                He heads to the kitchen, pulling down the tins of meat from the shelves. He finds a frying pan in a cabinet near the stove, and he repeats his actions of the previous day as he distributes whale meat evenly over the surface. The stove turns on easily, and he sets the pan down to cook, exploring the kitchen for anything else he might use. He finds several large glasses, and the water from the faucet – when he tries it – is pure and clear.

                As he stirs the meat around the pan, he tries another cabinet door, and the overwhelming odor of rotten fruit crashes over him in waves, startling him and making him gag. He slams the door shut, but the smell has already permeated the small room. He wrinkles his nose, hoping it won’t affect the taste of the whale.

                He finds silverware in a drawer near the sink, and plates in the cupboard above the stove. While they certainly aren’t the sterling silver and polished porcelain that an Empress would be accustomed to, it is better than nothing. He scoops the cooked whale meat from the pan, splitting it roughly onto two plates. He makes a note to give Emily the larger portion.

                As he waits for the meat to cool, he takes two vials of elixir from his bag. He’ll give one of Sokolov’s to Emily, and take one of Piero’s himself. He doesn’t want to completely use up either of the types in case he needs them later.

                He knocks on the door to the bedroom, opening it and calling out softly, “Emily? There’s food.” She sits up more quickly than he would like, and the look on her face is closer to suspicious and afraid than calm. But she seems to recognize him quickly, and she relaxes, pulling into a stretch of her own.

                “What kind of food?” she asks, sleep clinging to her words and dragging them soft and slow.

                “It’s only whale meat,” he mutters, apologetic. “There wasn’t much else.”

                She smiles at him, slipping her feet into her shoes. “That’s fine, Corvo. Thank you.”

                There isn’t an obvious dining area in this little house, so Corvo directs Emily to sit on the sofa, bringing the food out to her. She seems uncomfortable at being in the same room as the shrine, but she doesn’t say anything, and neither does Corvo. She _does_ make a face when he hands her the Health Elixir, but she downs it obediently, evidently aware of the importance of staying protected.

                Then there is nothing but the sound of clinking plates and chewing. Corvo gets up once to refill his and Emily’s water glasses, and when he returns, Emily is staring down at the floor, nudging a whale oil lantern with her toe. “What’s wrong?” Corvo asks, taking the empty plate from her hands.

                “Nothing,” she replies quietly. “Just thinking.”

                He doesn’t press her further, instead moving to gather up his things. When he goes to buckle on the Overseer’s belt and suspenders, he remembers the blood smeared over his person. “I’ll be right back,” he says instead, moving to the bedroom. “I’m going to see if there are any clothes that will fit us.”

                “Alright,” she says, holding her glass with both hands, eyes still cast downward.

                The dresser is completely empty when he searches it, but the closet opens to reveal mountains of shirts and pants, scattered haphazardly across the floor. He crouches, digging through it, pulling aside a blouse here, a pair of child’s shoes there. He doesn’t want to think too hard about why an Outsider worshipper had such a varied collection of clothing, but it gives him hope he might find something for Emily.

                He finds a white button-front shirt for himself, and a more reasonably sized pair of pants. There’s a collared gray jacket as well, crumpled at the bottom of the pile with a pale blue stain across one sleeve that he thinks is whale oil. He takes a moment to slip these on, sliding the chain from the cuff up his right sleeve. He is somewhat amazed at how much better he feels in clothes that fit without extraneous amounts of tightening. He leaves behind the Overseer coat, as he doubts that Martin would want it back, stained as it is.

                Corvo nearly laughs with relief when he finds a pair of shoes in his size. The previous night really had been painful on his feet, and he didn’t much look forward to having to do it again. He gleefully pulls on the new pair of boots with no small amount of relish.

                With some searching, he finds a pale blue shirt with what might have been frills at one point at the shoulders and hem, and a pair of young boy’s pants. He doesn’t think that Emily will mind they were meant for a boy, as long as they are clean.

                He sticks his head around the corner, holding up the clothes and shaking them vaguely in Emily’s direction. “These were the best I could find,” he says. “Do you want them?”

                Hopping down from the couch, she nods, accepting the gift and heading off to a side door that must hold a bathroom. Corvo takes the time to go through his things, buckling on his sword and pistol to the Overseer’s harness, sliding the three bone charms onto his belt. His possessions are few, only two vials of elixir, some scattered coins, and the curled painting of Campbell. And of course the heart. It doesn’t seem like nearly enough to carry himself and Emily through the days to come.

                Emily returns a moment later, and she looks so different out of the clothes that had been designed with her in mind. She looks more fragile, somehow, and the unkempt state of her hair serves to make her appear younger than she is. Corvo says nothing, moving past her and heading to the bathroom himself. He relieves himself and takes a moment to stand in front of the small bathroom mirror, washing his face. He looks haggard, which he expected, and the circles under his eyes seem to dominate his face. When he rubs at one eye with his left hand, the Mark shines oddly in the mirror, silvery blue instead of the usual black.

                If he doesn’t want Martin or his allies to find out about his connection to the Outsider, he should get himself a pair of gloves. He hadn’t seen any in the piles of clothes in the closet, but then again, he hadn’t been looking.

                Emily is waiting for him by the door, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Are you ready to go?” she asks.

                “Not yet,” he says. “I want to see if I can find some gloves.”

                She trails after him, tugging at the unfamiliar hem of her shirt. When he crouches to sift through the pile again, she kneels too, moving aside jackets and scarfs and a minute pair of baby’s socks. She’s the one to find the first glove, a simple thing of black cloth, and of course for the right hand. After a while, he finds the other, and he slips them both over his hands, flexing and unflexing his fingers. They’re a little too tight, and they ride up slightly on his wrists if he makes fists, but they cover the back of his hand completely and inconspicuously, so they will have to do.

                “Let’s go,” he says, offering a hand to help Emily back to her feet. “We must be close to the Port District. It shouldn’t be long now.”

                Emily nods, and follows after him silently.

                Because of the early hour of the morning, there are few guards posted, and fewer civilians. Corvo blinks himself and Emily down into the street, clinging to the walls and heading toward the light of the rising sun. There is a moment of uncertainty when a door opens unexpectedly in a house in front of them, and Corvo reacts instinctively, slowing time, scooping up Emily, and teleporting past before the resident even crosses the threshold. When time catches up, Emily gasps, looking back over her shoulder in alarm, squeezing Corvo’s arms painfully.

                “Sorry,” Corvo mutters, clinging tightly to her hand. “Didn’t have time to warn you.”

                “It’s fine,” Emily says, but she looks unnerved.

                They come to the quarantine wall, and Corvo turns to follow it, heading out toward the river. He remembers Martin had mentioned the Hound Pits Pub had been right on the shoreline, and hopefully he and Emily can walk along the floodwall unhindered.

                He has to blink up to reach the top of the brick wall at the river’s edge, and Emily comes into his arms easily enough, despite her concerns. Corvo is again struck at how brave she is, and how well she has been adapting to a truly terrible situation. He lets her down gently, asking quietly, “Still good?”

                She nods up at him, tugging on his hand to get him walking again.

                Soon, Dunwall Tower becomes visible on the other side of the Wrenhaven, and he knows they’re close. He scans the buildings nearby, looking for a sign that might show him the way.

                He and Emily cross around a corner, and they come to a cleared-out stretch of shoreline, bits of metal and furniture scattered over the river mud. There is a short tower nearby, a metal walkway leading from this building, to another, to a third. This last building is large, several stories tall, and even from this distance Corvo can see faint lights on inside. Warily, he gestures Emily to move behind him, even as they drop to the ground and cross the courtyard.

                A voice behind them calls “Who’s there?” and Corvo whirls, drawing his sword, stepping in front of Emily. The speaker is an older man, hair gone completely gray, dressed warmly in layers and a scarf. He holds a cigarette lightly between two fingers, sending a thin curling of smoke upward.

                “Bless me,” the man says, his eyes wide with surprise. “Martin said you might be coming, Corvo, but I didn’t believe it.”

                At the mention of Martin’s name, Corvo relaxes slightly, letting himself drop out of a battle-ready position. “You know Martin?” he asks, reluctantly sheathing his sword.

                “Sure do,” the man says, dropping his cigarette to the ground and snuffing it beneath his heel. “The name’s Samuel Beechworth.” He offers a hand, and Corvo shakes it, the fabric of his new gloves feeling strange on his hands. He tries not to show his discomfort. “You best come inside,” Samuel says, “The others will be wanting to meet you.”

                Emily creeps forward, nervously tugging on her shirt again. “How many people are here?” she asks.

                Samuel jumps, and he says, “I, uh, didn’t see you there, your Ladyship! Uh, well, there’s Overseer Martin, and Admiral Havelock, and Lord Pendleton. And there’s Piero, out in his workshop.” He jerks a thumb at a building behind him, where, if Corvo concentrates, he can hear a faint mechanical whirring sound. “Then there’s the servants, Miss Callista, and me. So… nine of us?”

                Corvo nods, taking Emily’s hand and beginning to walk toward the pub. “What exactly do you all plan to do here?” he asks.

                “Oh, don’t ask me,” Samuel says, shaking his head. “I’m just the boatman. You should talk to Admiral Havelock, if you want to know about that.”

                They step inside the bar and they see a young woman clutching a broom, sweeping bits of dust out of the corners and into a waiting dustpan. She looks up when they come in, peering out at them from beneath a large hat. “Oh!” she exclaims, leaning her broom against the wall. “I’ll go tell the others!” she says, darting through a side door and evidently hurrying up some stairs.

                Samuel directs them to sit at the bar, and he crosses around behind, drawing up two cups of whiskey and a third of water. This last he gives to Emily with a wink, saying “Still a bit too young for the good stuff, I think.”

                Emily accepts the drink shyly, her eyes cast to the ground. Corvo squeezes her fingers, his attention focused on the door. Soon, three men come into the room, pursued a moment later by the girl in the hat, and then another rather frazzled-looking man. The last appears to be some kind of butler, dressed in expensive clothes, his hair combed delicately to one side.

                “Corvo Attano,” one of the first men booms, clapping Corvo on the shoulder. He is broad-shouldered and tall, with a long scar down the left side of his face. He is wearing a navy uniform, and from the stripes on his shoulders, Corvo can tell he is an admiral. This must be Havelock, then. “The man of the hour. You caused quite a stir, breaking out of Coldridge.”

                “And it seems you’ve been busy,” Martin interjects from somewhere over Havelock’s massive shoulder. He shifts forward, a smile on his face. “Two days out of a cell and you’ve already rescued Lady Emily. What I would give to see the Lord Regent’s face when he finds out…”

                “But enough about that,” Havelock dismisses. “You two look like you could use some good food and decent rest. I can have Lydia set up a room on the top floor, if you’d like?”

                Emily clamps down on his fingers, drawing his attention. He looks town to see her shaking her head minutely, her expression creased with worry. The sight makes Corvo pause. Emily’s already been through a terrible time, shepherded from place to place. He understands why she wouldn’t want to stay with people she didn’t know, not after being carried away by her mother’s assassins, or being trapped in the Golden Cat. To tell the truth, Corvo himself isn’t very comfortable around all these strange new people with their vague promises of assistance. He’d certainly rather not _sleep_ where they can find him, not when there’s such a large bounty on his head, not when he has to protect Emily. There’s just too much at stake. Emily’s hesitance gives him the chance to gracefully decline, and to keep himself from owing these men for their hospitality.

                So, carefully, he says, “Thank you, but I think we can find a place on our own.”

                Havelock looks almost crestfallen at that, but when Emily audibly sighs with relief at Corvo’s right, he cannot really protest. He hurries to cover it, saying, “Ah, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Admiral Farley Havelock, owner of this establishment.”

                A man wearing finely made clothes of a sandy tone steps forward. “I’m Lord Treavor Pendleton, the financial backing of our little group.” He presses one hand over his chest and bows his head, adding, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

                “And,” Martin interjects, “it’s a pleasure to see you again, in one piece. I see you’ve managed to lose my coat.” He tugs at the sleeves of the duplicate he is wearing, straightening out the symbol of the Abbey of the Everyman near the hem. “Good thing I had another.”

                Thinking of the coat makes him think of Campbell, which makes him think of the black book. Corvo pulls his bag into his lap, digging past the copper wiring, retrieving the journal from where it had settled near the bottom. Carefully ensuring that the heart remains covered by his arm the entire time, he sets the journal on the counter, sliding it vaguely toward Martin.

                The Overseer approaches, picking it up and flipping through the pages. “You got it,” he says, sounding amazed and thrilled.

                “But it’s encoded,” Corvo says, buckling his bag shut with a snap. “Can’t make heads or tails of it.”

                Havelock laughs, patting Martin on the back. “Teague here is one of the best strategists alive. There’s no code that can stand up to him.”

                Martin shrugs the hand off good-naturedly, his eyes still glued to the pages in front of him. “I don’t know about best alive. I _did_ get caught.” He turns a page, sliding his finger down the lines of text. “But this doesn’t look too bad. Some kind of cipher… the keyword shouldn’t be too hard to figure out, knowing Campbell.”

                Havelock grins, and the scar on his cheek twists it into something threatening. “Excellent. That’ll give us access to the Lord Regent’s allies in no time.” He turns to face Corvo, continuing, “If you won’t take the room, you should at least go see Piero and Callista. Piero’s an amazing innovator, and he’s been making some tools that you might find useful. Callista can help with Lady Emily’s tutoring, so that her transition back onto the throne can go as smoothly as possible.”

                Corvo nods, putting his untouched whiskey on the counter. “Where can I find them?” he asks.

                “Piero’s in his workshop, of course, and Callista should be in the tower.” Havelock rubs his chin, and he says, “We had intended for Lady Emily to stay with her there, but I assume you’d prefer different arrangements?”

                “You assume correctly,” is all Corvo says, helping Emily jump down off of the bar stool. After a moment’s consideration, he adds, “I’ll come back to discuss things with you once I’ve talked with Callista and Piero, shall I?”

                “That would be delightful,” Lord Pendleton says. “I’m sure we will have much to talk about.”

                Corvo nods, readjusting his grip in Emily’s and returning to the door. Samuel stands and gestures them onward, his own whiskey half-finished and still clutched in his hand. Inclining his head in thanks, Corvo walks past, going back outside.

                The door to the workshop is open, now, and Corvo can see a man in glasses hunching over a table. When he approaches, he can see the man is smoothing some piece of metal on a grindstone, small scatterings of sparks occasionally rising into the air.

                Corvo releases Emily’s hand, motioning her to remain by the door, and he clears his throat, taking a step forward into the light. The man looks up, and he says, “Ah. You’re here.” He lets the grindstone spin to a stop. “I thought I heard some kind of commotion earlier, and your arrival would explain it.”

                “Pleased to meet you,” Corvo says, offering a hand to shake.

                “You as well,” the man says. “I’m Piero Joplin, and I’ll be supplying you with various weaponry and tools that you’ll be needing in the days to come.” With a quick gesture of his hand, he points upstairs to a kind of loft, and he says, “I’ve got the first set up there.”

                Emily hurries to follow them as Piero leads Corvo upstairs, saying all the while, “Of course, I can always make improvements. If you bring me the right materials, I can make nearly anything you desire. If you want me to change something, you’ll just have to let me know, and I’ll have it finished within a day or two.”

                Corvo nods. The man doesn’t seem to need to breathe when he speaks, and the effect is slightly unsettling. The intensity of his stare and the uncertain nature of these ‘tools’ does little to help.

                The natural philosopher brings them to a stop at a desk, and he pulls a large box from underneath, sliding open several flaps on top. “Here they are,” he says, taking things out of the box and shoving them into Corvo’s hands. “Custom made, and intended to have been delivered to you when our man helped you out of Coldridge.” He squints, leaning closer, and he says, “One day you really must tell me how you managed to escape. Locking the door behind you was a very nice touch, if I may say so.”

                Unwilling to encourage the line of discussion, Corvo focuses his attention on the items in his hand. One appears to be a miniature crossbow, with a grip that looks like it had once belonged to a gun. The second is a bit more mysterious, until he gives an experimental squeeze. The whole contraption _flexes_ in his hand, and a short sword – or maybe a long dagger – erupts out of the handle, locking solidly into place. Impressed, he tests the weight and balance, finding it much preferable to the Overseer’s blade he had been using.

                “Excellent,” Piero says. “You can retract the blade by twisting and pressing here,” he indicates a spot near the base. “A lot more subtle than a sword strapped to your hip, I’d say?”

                Corvo nods. “And the crossbow?” he asks, gesturing.

                Piero shrugs. “It doesn’t have the greatest punch, but there’s not much I can really do with a bow barely the size of a pistol. But it’s quiet, and I’ve modified it so several types of bolts can be fired, including the incendiary design the stilt-walkers so favor, as well as a sleep toxin.”

                Feeling his eyebrows raise, Corvo asks, “Sleep toxin?”

                Piero nods. “It’s largely derived from hemlock. All you’ll need is to shoot someone with one of these darts,” he rummages briefly in a drawer before retrieving a small glass tube containing a pale green liquid, pointed at one end and feathered at the other. “Wait a few moments, and they’ll go straight to sleep. Ingenious, if I do say so myself.”

                Corvo is inclined to agree. He twists the handle of his sword and the blade retracts, and it fits easily into the pocket of his trousers. The weapons are nice, and much more than he had expected to receive. He catches sight of another piece of metal in the box, and he asks, “And this?”

                “This,” Piero says, and there is a note of pride in his voice, “is what will help you strike terror into the hearts of your enemies.” He lifts it reverently, revealing a mask, shaped in the image of a stylized metal skull, its jaw loosely attached with golden wire. “You are a wanted man, after all, and you may find yourself in need of a disguise over the coming days. Additionally, there are three levels of magnification in the right eye, and it can offer some protection from the plague. Of course,” and the pride is stronger now, “my Remedy will protect you beyond even that.”

                Ah. That’s where Corvo had heard Piero’s name before. That’s good to know.

                He holds up the mask, gesturing toward Corvo’s face. “Can you put it on? I was unable to do the final measurements without your presence, and the fit must be precise.”

                Hesitantly, Corvo nods, holding himself still as Piero slides the mask over his face. It is much more difficult to stay motionless when Piero starts fiddling with the mask’s lenses, because small, sharp implements near his eyes are not exactly something he is comfortable with. But he lets it happen, knowing exactly how useful a means to hide his identity will be. The ugly, frightening nature of the mask will help too, especially when combined with his supernatural gifts. He knows he’ll seem more (less?) than a man, instead a direct manifestation of the Outsider’s will.

                Some part of Corvo wonders if that’s what he already _is_.

                “It looks scary,” Emily murmurs, lingering somewhere near the wall even as Piero continues to make adjustments.

                “I think that’s the point,” Corvo replies. Talking makes his breath reflect back onto his face, uncomfortably warm. The mask will do no favors to his already less-than-loquacious nature.

                “There,” Piero says, stepping back with a self-satisfied look in his eyes. “That should do it.”

                Corvo takes a moment to look around. He had expected impeded peripheral vision, but Piero seems to have compensated for this in the exaggeratedly wide eye sockets of the skull. While he can see the edges of the mask and the rims of the lenses no matter where he looks, it is much better than the problems he had imagined.

                But Emily has a look on her face that he doesn’t like, all hesitance and distress, so he gently reaches up and presses the switches, pulling it free into his hands. “This is good,” he says. “Thank you.”

                He shifts and the chain up his sleeve clinks, and he hesitates. This man calls himself an ally, and a craftsman. If he is to have any chance remove his handcuffs, it is best done here and now. “Piero,” he asks, “would you look at something for me?”

                “Hmm?” The natural philosopher asks, peering at Corvo over the top of his glasses. “And what would that be?”

                Putting down the crossbow and the mask on table, Corvo hesitantly takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. The chain swings free from his right hand, and the skin around his wrists is red and inflamed. Though the Outsider may have restored to him his pre-Coldridge body, nothing could protect him against the harsh scraping of the iron caused by every little movement of his hands.

                Piero exhales slowly, alternately studying Corvo’s wrists and looking up at his face. “I can get these off of you,” he says, “but not easily.” Demonstratively, he hooks a finger into the space between a cuff and Corvo’s wrist, pulling the metal tight to Corvo’s skin. Even that small pressure hurts. “There’s not a lot of room to work with.”

                Corvo says, “It doesn’t matter. I just want them gone.”

                “Understandable,” Piero replies. “Well, let me see what I can do.”

                He moves back to the ground floor, digging through a shelf filled with various tools. He raises a hand triumphantly, clutching a narrow pair of bolt cutters.

                “These will perform adequately, I believe. I have better tools, of course,” Piero says, gesturing at a whale-oil powered machine over his shoulder, “But they aren’t as delicate.”

                With a nod, Corvo offers his hands, setting them flat on a nearby table. There’s an audiograph player next to the window, and he wonders what sort of things a natural philosopher would consider worthy of recording. Perhaps one day he’ll ask, if he and Emily decide to stay.

                Piero grabs one of his hands, shifting and tilting it until he can get a good angle. “You may want to brace yourself,” he warns, adjusting his grip on the bolt cutters. “I’ll have to do this twice for each hand.”

                Corvo nods, but he cannot help flinching when Piero presses down on the handle and the first segment of cuff splits with a snap. By the time both manacles are removed, he is bleeding in several places, some from scraping against the cuffs as he pulled them away, some from the bolt cutters in such close quarters. He doesn’t mind though, rubbing his fingers over his pained skin, surprised at how much lighter he already feels.

                “Thank you,” he says. “Truly.”

                “It’s of no consequence,” Piero dismisses, dropping the bolt cutters to the desk. “Just remember to come visit me for any gear you need. There is not much for a man of my capabilities to do in this place other than craft.”

                “I will,” he promises. Glancing for a moment at Emily, he asks, “I was told to see a Miss Callista?”

                “Ah, yes.” For some reason, Piero looks embarrassed. “She should be in the tower. You can reach it from the upper floor of my laboratory.” There is a definite pink tinge to his cheeks, and Corvo briefly wonders what that could be about.

                Nodding his thanks, Corvo offers his hand to Emily, which she takes with a smile he recognizes as forced. He returns upstairs, scooping the crossbow and mask into his bag, definitively sealing it shut. She must have been more disturbed by the sight of the mask than he had realized, for she stays completely silent, even when Corvo pushes open a door upstairs and they catch a brilliantly beautiful look of Dunwall Tower lit up by sunlight, reflected in the water of the river. So he doesn’t say anything either, simply crossing the makeshift metal walkway and knocking on the door to the small tower.

                A woman answers it, dressed in somber but fine clothes. Her hair is pinned up in the fashion preferred by the ladies at court, but she looks drawn and worn, the skin under her eyes gone thin and dark. Something about her face is familiar, but he cannot immediately place it.

                “Are you Callista?” Corvo asks, noting Emily shifting a little ways behind him.

                “I am,” she says, looking surprised. She notices the little Empress pressing herself into the shadows behind Corvo’s legs, and she crouches, putting her hands on her knees. “And you must be Emily.”

                Emily nods, and asks, “Havelock said you were going to teach me?”

                Callista smiles. “I will. I’ll also be helping take care of you during the day.” She straightens up, addressing Corvo. “I assume that’s what you’re here to discuss?” At Corvo’s nod, she says, “Shall we go inside?”

                The inside of the tower is small and contained, furnished with two beds, a few side tables, and a desk. Callista sits primly on one bed, gesturing her guests to the other with a gloved hand. Emily waits for Corvo to sit, then presses herself to his side, watching Callista with wide eyes.

                “Admiral Havelock has told you of his plans?”

                Havelock had done no such thing, but Corvo knows how to put together the context. Their utter lack of reaction about the announcements of Campbell’s death coupled with Corvo’s possession of the black book, the fact that they have provided him with concealed weapons and a mask in the image of a skull… It’s not that hard to realize they want to use him as some sort of assassin.

                He doesn’t mind. He was going to kill the Lord Regent anyway.

                So he simply nods, waiting for her to continue.

                “Well, since you can’t take Emily with you, or leave her on her own, I have been assigned to be her caretaker.” She crosses one ankle behind the other, a somewhat wry twist to her mouth. “In normal circumstances, I would provide character references, perhaps from my uncle, but Geoff has been rather busy as of late.”

                Corvo feels himself perk at the name, realizing why she looks so familiar. “You’re Geoff Curnow’s niece! He spoke very highly of you.”

                This connection, no matter how small, puts him a little more at ease. He may not know Callista personally, but he does know Geoff, and if _he_ trusts her, then Corvo will do the same.

                Callista smiles at the praise, but doesn’t comment on it. She says, “I thought we should arrange for Emily to take lessons every morning and afternoon, with a break in between for lunch. On days when you’re… otherwise occupied, I can care for her until you return.”

                Corvo looks down to meet Emily’s eyes, squeezing her hand lightly. “Is that alright with you?” he asks.

                She thinks for a moment, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “Will it be safe?” she whispers, her grip on his hand nearly tight enough to be painful.

                He says, “Safer than leaving you alone.”

                After another moment, she nods, her mind seemingly made up. “Alright then,” she says, turning to face Callista a little more fully. “I’ll do it.”

                The relief on Callista’s face is visible. She lets herself sigh, and then she says, “I’m glad, Emily. I hope we can grow to be friends.”

                Corvo stands, gently detaching Emily’s grip on his hand. “Will you be okay waiting with Callista for a while, while I talk to Havelock?”

                Emily nods again, tugging the hem of her shirt further down over the waistband of her pants.

                Corvo takes a moment to murmur a word of thanks to Callista, before heading to the door. He crosses across the metal walkway, then through Piero’s workshop, nodding a greeting to the natural philosopher as he passes.

                Havelock, Martin, and Pendleton are waiting in a booth by the bar when he returns. Something about the scene makes him pause, and he stands with one foot in the doorway, racking his brain for what strikes him as so odd. Martin makes a hand gesture, and Havelock and Pendleton nod, faces solemn. It comes to him, and he feels his eye widen. He had witnessed this exact scene during his trip to the Void. The Outsider must have known even then that this was where his path would lead.

                “Come in Corvo,” Pendleton says, jarring him from his thoughts. “You’ll catch cold standing out there.”

                He crosses the threshold, walking forward and coming to a stop and the end of the table. He doesn’t particularly want to sit, especially when the only ‘available’ seat is crammed in next to Havelock’s brick-house frame. But there is something about standing beside them that makes him feel inferior, somehow, like he’s a junior cadet being reprimanded by commanding officers. He finds himself having to fight the trained-in urge to stand at attention, and he carefully keeps his expression blank, holding back the scowl.

                “Got things squared away with Piero and Callista, I presume?” Havelock asks, idly swirling a measure of whiskey in a glass.

                “I did.” Corvo says. “Shall we get down to business, then?”

                Martin smirks, leaning back and laying one arm across the rear of the booth. “A man of action. Should have known.” He pats the black book where it lies on the table between them, saying, “Within these pages are the keys to the Lord Regent’s power. If we can eliminate his political and financial backing, he will be left vulnerable.” He pauses, gesturing vaguely in Corvo’s direction. “Which is where you will come in.”

                Corvo says nothing, moving his eyes steadily from one face, to another, to another. When no more information is forthcoming, he asks, “How?”

                “Yes, well,” Pendleton says, sounding slightly flustered, “it begins with my twin brothers. Their voting bloc currently shifts the parliamentary vote into a majority in the Lord Regent’s favor. If they can be removed, then _I_ will gain control of the votes, and I can begin to stall any legal movement he intends to enact.”

                Removed. What a detached way to discuss his siblings’ potential murder. Keeping these thoughts hidden and silent, Corvo asks, “What is it you want me to do?”

                Pendleton retrieves a bottle from within the depths of his coat, taking a long swig before he speaks again. “My brothers have been away from the estate for several months now. I suspect they were responsible for Lady Emily’s imprisonment, wherever she had been kept.”

                Corvo certainly hadn’t seen them at the Golden Cat, but then again, he hadn’t really cared about anything other than Emily. He nods, and Pendleton continues.

                “Now that you’ve rescued her, they will quickly lose the Lord Regent’s favor. I believe they will retreat to the manor for a few days, to ‘lie low’ so to speak.” After another pause and a fortifying breath, he finishes, “Samuel can provide you with transport to the manor, and I can give you a key.”

                “And I should remove your brothers,” Corvo says evenly.

                Pendleton nods.

                Corvo takes a long moment to think, studying the faces of the three men before him. Pendleton won’t meet his eyes, and his drinks from the bottle become more and more frequent. Havelock _does_ stare back at Corvo levelly, precisely nothing in his expression giving away his thoughts. Martin still wears the hint of a smirk, watching Corvo just as thoroughly as Corvo is watching him.

                These men clearly have an additional agenda, and are hiding much more than they are saying. The question is whether Corvo is willing to ignore or endure this for as long as it takes until his own agenda has been completed.

                He has come to realize that he doesn’t have much choice in the matter, if he wants to keep Emily safe. He _needs_ their help, as much as it rankles him to admit it. Without them, he has neither access to a reliable source of food, weaponry, and elixir, nor a place for Emily to stay when he ventures out in search of blood and vengeance. He trusts Callista, at least, and that is one more ally than he really expected to have gained. He will have to accept this as what he can get, and leave it at that.

                So he says, “I’ll do it.”

                Havelock breaks out into a grin, raising his glass in a toast. “Good man. I knew we could count on you.”

                The look in Martin’s eyes is a little too close to dark satisfaction for Corvo’s comfort, but he’s already made the plunge, and now he has to bear the consequences. “Welcome to the Loyalists,” Martin says, lifting his own glass to his lips. “We’re happy to have you.”

                There’s a threatening edge to Martin. Corvo will have to be careful.

                “You should prepare yourself,” Havelock is saying, “if you want to be in top form for the trip. You can leave at once, if you’d like.”

                Corvo nods, turning to leave. “I’ll meet with you again once I get Emily settled, then?” he asks.

                When they agree, Corvo crosses into the courtyard, returning to Emily in the tower. He knocks on the door, and enters at Callista’s bright welcome. Emily is not smiling, not quite, but close. She is sitting on the bed opposite Callista, some of the lines of worry gone from her brow.

                “Ready to go?” Corvo asks.

                She rises from the bed, taking Corvo’s hand. “Goodbye, Callista,” she calls, following Corvo down through Piero’s workshop and out into the courtyard.

                “Let’s go,” Corvo says, leading her out into the dark.

                They go a good distance away from the pub, and then Corvo holds his arms out to pick Emily up. She wraps her arms around his neck, clinging tightly.

                Corvo blinks them up to a balcony, then to a rooftop, hitching Emily’s legs higher up around his waist. “Which way?” he asks, looking out at the dark shapes of the abandoned district all around him.

                “Let’s go that way,” Emily says, pointing.

                “As you wish,” he replies, the smile audible in his voice.

\-------

                They don’t have to go far to find a suitable building, a relatively undamaged apartment on the edge of a town square. There is a two-bedroom apartment with a functioning stove, clear water, and the real treasure in some unspoiled apples and pears sitting in a bowl on the counter. Corvo immediately offers the choice of the lot to Emily, just to see her smile.

                Munching on fruit, the two of them decide to make their place a little more comfortable, since they will likely be staying here for a while. Emily helps him shove an antiquated, stiff couch to one corner, dragging pillows out of a nearby linen closet to spread over the remaining chairs. They take a moment together to sift through the only bookshelf, separating the books deemed ‘boring’ from those that were worth reading. Secretly, Corvo sets a few of the boring books aside as potential schoolbooks, wondering if Callista had access to them at the pub.

                Corvo convinces Emily to take the bedroom at the end of the hall, nearest the bathroom, so that anyone or anything that might find their way into their hideaway would come across _him_ first. He sets the now-obsolete Overseer blade against the wall near the headboard of his bed, and therefore always in easy reach as he slept.

                Aside from the few interesting books and the fruit, the apartment has little to offer. The previous occupants had taken nearly all of their clothes out of the dressers and closets, and the things that remain are too small for Corvo, and too big for Emily. There is a large saucepan beneath the sink in the kitchen, and a strainer, but nearly all of the other implements are gone, including glasses and silverware. There is absolutely no food in the cupboards or the pantry, the bowl of fruit apparently the only exception. An unusual, musty smell permeates the whole building, sunk deeply into all fabric and leaving the air thick with dust.

                But it is safe, and it is theirs, and that is enough.

                Corvo sets about to unpacking his bag. The hagfish go in a cupboard above the stove, the fire-starting chips go in a small drawer, and the curled painting of Campbell gets put on top of a rather shockingly dusty desk. The bone charms Corvo considers more carefully; they’re quite small, after all, and some part of him is loath to leave any magic behind. But, after running his fingers over the rejected charms, listening to their whispers, he decides they would just be taking up space. He keeps swift shadow, though he does not have the current ability to activate it in concert with his three others, and he spills the four discards on top of the dresser. For a moment, he worries that they’ll start singing again, now that he isn’t actively holding a claim over their power. But they remain quiet and passive, and his fears of disrupted sleep prove unfounded.

                This leaves him with the spools of copper wiring and a mess of coins. He weighs both in his hands, thinking. He will likely have little-to-no opportunity to spend money himself, but he also is reluctant to just give it away. Piero seems reasonable enough, and he must still be well-connected if his name is attached to one of the primary plague preventatives. Maybe Corvo can ask him to pick up some food and things the next time he leaves on a supply run. And anyway, hadn’t Piero mentioned Corvo ‘bringing him materials’ to upgrade his gear? Maybe they could reach some sort of agreement.

                By the time all of this is done, it is only midday. Corvo comes back into the main room to find Emily peering down at a book of children’s rhymes, her apple still clutched in her hand. She looks up at his approach, studying his face. “We’re going back?” she asks.

                He nods. “I have a job to do. Will you be alright staying with Callista while I’m gone?”

                “Yes,” she replies without hesitation. “But you’ll be careful Corvo, won’t you?”

                Smiling gently to assuage her concern, he says, “I will. I promise.”

                This particular building’s stairwell is completely unimpeded, a refreshing change from the pattern of the last few days. It makes Corvo feel a bit better to know that Emily can get into their hideaway without his help if it becomes necessary.

                When they make it back to the Hound Pits, they find Callista leaning against the pub’s outer wall, staring out over the river. She startles when they approach, and Corvo notes with interest that her first instinct is to drop into a slightly more steady position, ready to fight, not flee. A woman who can take care of herself, Corvo muses, approving. She relaxes when she realizes who they are, and she says, “Welcome back.”

                Emily smiles unsurely up at her, releasing Corvo’s hand. Corvo pats her reassuringly on the shoulder, before he leaves them be, opening the door to go inside.

                An unfamiliar woman stands at the bar, rubbing idly at a glass with a piece of cloth. She looks up at the sound of the door, and an expression of surprise crosses her face. “You must be Mr. Attano.” She pauses, setting her cloth down on the counter. “Or should that be Lord Attano? Forgive me, I’m not very well versed in courtly niceties.”

                Not unkindly, he says, “Call me Corvo. Everyone does.”

                Some part of him is touched that she had bothered to ask what he wished to be called at all, but he doesn’t mind the familiarity of his given name. He had never been as caught up in titles and honorifics as had some of the others at court. To him, the whole thing had seemed frivolous.

                And now, with Jessamine’s death like a fresh wound in his gut, reminding him with every passing moment that he had failed so _utterly_ , he knows he doesn’t deserve the titles anymore. Lord Protector means exactly nothing when the Empress he had devoted his life to lies dead.

                “Corvo, then,” the woman says with a smile. “I’m Lydia Brooklaine, hostess of the Hound Pits.” She pauses, making a gesture partway between a head tilt and a shrug. “Or, I was. Before the plague, and all that.”

                Corvo says nothing, pulling his gloves a little more firmly down his wrists. It is not his place to say what she is or what she can be.

                Lydia studies him, a gleam in her gray eyes. “You’re not what I expected,” she says.

                He raises an eyebrow in question, and she hurries to add, “Not in a bad way. I just- They said you were a military man, so I guess I expected someone like Havelock.”

                Corvo lets himself smile a little to show that no harm was done. He asks, “Do you know where I could find the others? I am to meet with them again before I go.”

                “Oh,” Lydia says, “They’re in Havelock’s room. Second floor, end of the hall. You can’t miss it.”

                Nodding his thanks, Corvo moves through a side door and up the stairs. He has no trouble at all recognizing the right room. He pauses before he enters, taking in the sight of the out-of-place metal door. Havelock must have less faith in their safety than he admits.

                Corvo knocks, and comes inside before they can answer. Martin is sitting at a large table, Campbell’s black book held in one hand as he consults some type of chart with the other. Pendleton and Havelock look up from some sort of discussion at Corvo’s approach, off to one side.

                Havelock grins, and he says, “Ah, Corvo. You ready to go?”

                “I am,” Corvo replies. He faces Pendleton, and he says, “You have the key?”

                “Yes, yes,” the nobleman says, fumbling for something in his pocket. He digs up a simple silver key, which he offers to Corvo. “This is to the servant’s entrance at the side of the building. This can help you get into the manor without being seen.”

                Corvo accepts the key, sliding it into his own coat pocket. “If that’s all?” he asks, taking a step toward the door.

                “That’s all,” Havelock says. “Good luck Corvo.”

                He nods, and traces back the way he had come, walking down the stairs and passing Lydia still at the bar. He gives a nod of acknowledgement to her and moves on, opening the door to the large back courtyard of the pub.

                Samuel is in the boat when Corvo comes to look for him, fiddling with some piece of the boat’s machinery. He looks up easily at Corvo’s footsteps, leaning forward onto his knee. “Time to go?” he asks.

                Corvo nods, stepping down into the boat. It is a much smaller craft than he is used to, and it rocks alarmingly under his shifting weight. Samuel makes no comment, though, so he hides his unease, settling down onto the seat at the aft.

                Samuel doesn’t move to fire the engine, meeting Corvo’s gaze levelly. “You best get that mask on,” he says. “I’ll try to stay out of sight, but you never know when a boat’ll pull up beside you.”

                The mask is cold against his fingers when he goes to retrieve it from his bag. It grins eerily up at him, a light reflecting off its lenses that doesn’t seem to come from the sun. He turns it in his hands, pressing it to his face, activating the little buttons and braces that keep it in place. Some part of him expects the world to be tinted as blue as the glass in the lenses, despite his prior experience, but his vision is almost completely normal. He takes a moment to roll his neck, looking up, down, left, and right, checking for blind spots. Satisfied, he says, “Let’s go.”

                Samuel starts up the engine and moves smoothly away from the bank, the water parting around them with small ripples. Corvo cannot stop himself from looking over his shoulder at the receding shape of the Hound Pits, wondering if Emily is already in the tower with Callista.

                “Been to the Estate District much, Corvo?” Samuel asks. “I know you spent most of your time up in Dunwall Tower, but maybe you had some business out there once in a while?”

                Corvo knows Samuel is trying to ease the tension, and he doesn’t blame him. His hands have involuntarily curled into fists in his lap, pulling the too-tight gloves slightly up his wrists. So he replies, “Not since the plague. There wasn’t much movement to and from the Tower once the rats showed up.”

                The boatman makes a gesture of his head to one side as if to say ‘makes sense.’ He says, “A lot has changed since then. Some of the floodgates have been shut, blocking off entire canals. I can definitely get you in, but if you raise any kind of alarm, getting back out will be much harder.”

                Corvo nods, though Samuel’s gaze is still forward, looking out over the river in front of them. He lets the silence fall between them, staring down the river himself toward Kaldwin’s Bridge. Truth be told, he hadn’t been into the Estate District much at all. He followed Jessamine wherever she went, mostly, only rarely venturing out on his own. And the upper-class that tended to live in the expensive houses preferred to come to Parliament and court, rather than receive governmental officials in their own homes. He’s not entirely sure what he will find when he goes out into the Estate District, and in some ways it makes him uncomfortable. He’d prefer a plan, and knowledge of how things were to play out, rather than moving in blindly, but he has little choice.

                He flexes and unflexes his hands in his gloves to feel the thrum of magic beneath his skin. He’s not sure what to do, if it would be better to simply do what he had been asked, or if perhaps he should look harder, and try to find another way.

                Samuel says nothing, piloting them down the Wrenhaven, the water a silent and mercurial background to his disquieted thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a completely unrelated note, I just read Zi's post here (http://outsidersblood.tumblr.com/post/92953777091/essie-essex-something-to-think-about) about the fact that Martin apparently isn't even an actual Overseer? He's just pretending? Oh my god Martin, seriously. Who even does that?


	7. Chapter 7

                Corvo will admit that he had his doubts, but Samuel gets them down river and through the canals of the Estate District without once being seen. He lets them glide smoothly to a stop at the foot of a staircase leading up to street level, and only then does he turn to address his passenger again. “Pendleton Manor is a couple of blocks down the road that way,” he points, but all Corvo can see from this low angle on the water are the top stories of some high buildings and the arch of a single streetlamp. “I’m sorry I can’t take you closer,” Samuel says. “There’s been some trouble with piracy lately, and all the canals near Drapers Ward have been overrun.”

                Corvo nods, lifting himself from the boat and stepping with a measure of relief back onto steady ground.

                “I’ll wait for you just past this floodgate,” Samuel says. “If things go belly up, you’re going to have to find the key to get through.” With that, he pulls away, his boat moving near silently through the water of the canal.

                Corvo watches him go until he rounds a corner and vanishes from view. He turns to the staircase, walking upward and coming out onto the street.

                The Estate District has been comparatively free of the plague, and this is immediately obvious on the street. There are no piles of festering trash on the corners, no rats sniffing around the shadows, and barely any guardsmen out on patrols. It is easy for Corvo to step into the shadows beneath an awning to contemplate his next move.

                He is completely unfamiliar with Pendleton Manor, and he has absolutely no clue what might be waiting for him. While this normally wouldn’t be an obstacle for him, the thought of getting trapped behind the floodgates makes him hesitate. If the worst did happen, he knows he would be able to hide for a while, maybe as a rat, maybe in one of the few nearby abandoned buildings, but he doesn’t want to be away from Emily that long. He may be giving these Loyalists a chance, but he certainly doesn’t want to leave her to their mercies, not without his protection.

                So he has to find a way into the manor without alerting any guards or any kind of private security on the estate. He also has only the one vial of Spiritual Remedy, limiting the use of his magic. He has no clue what he should do, and no idea where to begin.               

                Perhaps the heart would have some advice for him? He pulls it from his bag, noting the way it pulses against his fingers. If nothing else, he can stall for time to think by searching for magic.

                He squeezes it tight, and the female voice whispers, ‘ _The aristocrats jealously guard their caviar and their wine. The foreign ships no longer travel up and down the wide canals._ ’ He tries again, and it says, ‘ _Only when the third maidservant went missing did suspicion begin to fall on the backs of Lord and Lady Brimsley._ ’ Once more, and the heart says, ‘ _The River Watch is all but disbanded. The gangs own the water, now._ ’

                Corvo sighs. Though the heart may share secrets, the information seems to be loosely linked to his mission at best. He’ll seek out the magic, for now, and hope that some sort of plan will occur to him.

                There seem to be four points of resonance, two some distance away behind him, one apparently down in the water of the canal itself, and one extremely close by –judging from the feverish beating of the heart – in the building directly over his head. Corvo chances darting out from his hiding place, peering at the wall above for a way upward. He blinks his way up from awning to vent to roof, and he sees the indicative violet light of an Outsider shrine through an open window. That certainly explains the strength of the heart’s reaction.

                He teleports onto the second level of roofs, putting his hands on the windowsill and sliding inside. The altar is immediately adjacent to the window, the bone rune next to a vial of Piero’s Remedy, a jar of dried herbs on the ground below. He barely has the chance to put both feet on the ground when something slams into him, sending him reeling backward and smashing his head against the wall. He throws his arms up before his face, vision bursting with stars, trying to see what had attacked him.

                The weeper lunges at him again, mouth sagging wide as he moans, stinging flies whirling and swarming all around his head. Corvo manages to get a hand on his chest and push him away, scrambling in his coat pocket for his sword, his gloved fingers slipping over the smooth metal surface. The next time the weeper attacks, he meets the sharpened edge of a blade, tainted blood oozing thickly and slowly from wounds across his hands and arms. Corvo adjusts his grip on the hilt and slashes forward, opening the man up from shoulder to hip. He falls to the ground, bleeding eyes rolling in their sockets.

                Corvo stands there, shoulders heaving, feeling his harsh breaths in the hot confines of his mask. The flies are still buzzing and swarming around the fallen weeper, darting in circles around his head and wounds.

                Corvo curses, casting Dark Vision like he should have done before he entered the building. More yellow shapes of weepers are climbing up a stairwell to his right, and he drops back into a fighting position. He slashes again as soon as the first weeper bursts into the room, and she shrieks in pain and rage, thick black ichor oozing out of her mouth. Corvo doesn’t have time to attack again, because the second weeper turns on him, catching hold of his arm. The flies swarming around her head dive and strike, and Corvo’s Dark Vision shatters at the first bite that pierces his skin. He shoves the weeper backward, following up with a stab that goes right between her ribs and sends her falling to the floor. The other weeper isn’t far behind, falling as he slashes across her throat, sending her into collapse with a weak gurgle.

                He casts Dark Vision again, scanning the floors below, relieved to see no more yellow shapes. So much for the Estate District being free of plague.

                He presses his fingers to the side of his neck, wincing at the pain this simple pressure causes. He had been bitten or stung several times by the weepers’ flies, and he grimaces. He doesn’t think that the flies themselves carry the plague, but he doesn’t want to take the chance. He scoops up the vial of Remedy and downs it as quickly as he can, trying not to breathe through his nose to avoid the hideous smell of the dead weepers. This done, he turns to the shrine proper at last, taking the rune from the altar.

                The air goes thin and odd, shot through with streaks of shadow and spots of light. Corvo finds himself standing on nothingness, looking down at an infinite abyss directly below his feet. The Outsider slowly blurs into existence, pieces and patches melding together into his impassive face. 

                “Hello, Corvo. On your first mission for the men who call themselves the Loyalists?” He tilts his head, studying Corvo’s face with dark, dark eyes. “But already, you’re wondering if their choices are the right ones. Do they truly have Emily’s best interests in mind? Or are there other motivations behind their actions?”

                Corvo says nothing, his breathing still uneven from his fight with the weepers. That seems to suit the Outsider well enough, for he simply continues, “It doesn’t matter, anyway. You and I both know that you have few other options. So you move onward, ready to kill for the men you met just this morning.” He smirks, one long tendril of shadow curling lazily around his shoulder. “How things have changed.”

                Corvo can feel his shoulders stiffen, though he tries to fight it. Again, the Outsider shows an uncanny ability to pluck the strings of his worries and fears. Since the idea had been introduced to him, the potential deaths of the Pendleton twins have weighed heavily on his mind. It’s not like this would be the first time that he has killed, not by a longshot. No matter how well loved an Empress Jessamine had been, in a city as violent and tumultuous as Dunwall, attempts on her life had been inevitable. But that had felt entirely different from what he is planning now. Those early deaths had been solely for the protection of his Empress and his dearest friend, and they had been reactionary, not premeditated like this. But now he is to go and murder two men in their own home on the order of others?

                The more he lets himself think, the more disquieted he becomes. What difference is there, really, between those men and women and their efforts to kill Jessamine for their own personal gain, and what he is attempting to do here himself?

                The Outsider’s smile widens, a light reflecting in his black eyes. “And now you doubt even yourself. What will you do, I wonder?” He leans forward, shadows writhing behind him, barely perceptible against the deeper darkness. Even as he begins to fade into unreality and Void, he says, “Remember, my dear. I will be watching.”

                With a rush of air, the Outsider is gone, leaving Corvo standing in a room with the weeper corpses. The abrupt return of the smell of rot and disease makes him gag, and he reflexively presses the back of his hand to his mouth, bumping uselessly against the golden wire of his mask. He shoves the rune into his bag, eager to silence the singing so he can leave this place behind. But as he does, he hears a second, quieter dark magic song begin, telling him that a bone charm is hidden somewhere nearby. Resigning himself to at least a minute more among the stench, he follows the sound through a side door, into a small room. He draws up short, faced with the sight of a mutilated corpse tucked into a haphazard pile of mattresses and cloth. Its face and skin have rotted away, and its abdomen has been apparently sliced repeatedly, leaving exposed bone and organ spread messily around its sides. Over the walls and floor are words written in white paint, the handwriting getting messier and messier to the point of near illegibility. The wall is covered from ceiling to floor with the words “ _dreary, dreary, dreary,_ ” interspersed with angry slashes of white paint and smears in the shape of fingers. The floor holds the message, “ _You wanted me to decide. You asked me to do it. There’s a hole in the world_.”

                Feeling his lips peeling back from his teeth, he kneels and plucks the humming bone charm from its place tucked into the corpse’s elbow. As he turns to leave, he catches a glimpse of another Spiritual Remedy lying beneath a bed in the corner, and he makes a brief detour to snatch it up.

                He doesn’t stop until he’s back out on the roof, gratefully taking in breaths of the salt-scented wind. He crouches at the very edge of the roof, looking down at the water of the canal.

                The Outsider’s words ring in his head, amused and somehow malevolent. _How things have changed._ There’s something deeply ironic in the fact that it was the god of darkness and ambiguity that made him question the morality of his actions. But now that it is at the forefront of his mind, he can feel himself growing more and more uncomfortable with the idea of killing the Pendleton brothers. They’ve done him no personal wrong; by the Void, he doesn’t even _know_ the men. And yet he was blindly going to go forward, without giving more than a passing thought to finding another way.

                The thought is unpleasant, and it rings far too strongly of hypocrisy in his mind. He finds himself tracing the concealed shape of the crossbow still tucked into his bag. Piero had given him several of the darts containing the sleep poison; maybe he can find alternate means of ‘removing’ the twins, as Lord Pendleton had so delicately put it. But how? From what little he had seen earlier in the day, the Hound Pits don’t seem equipped to hold the two men for any length of time, even if Corvo _could_ subdue them and get them back without alerting the guards.

                He stares down into the canal, remembering the artifact that the heart had promised him lay in the depths. Though a large part of him recoils strongly at the thought of going back into the freezing water, especially now that he’s finally found dry clothes, the lure of magic is too strong. He can return to his original ‘plan’ for now, and stall for time as he collects whatever magic this district has to offer.

                Taking a moment to ascertain the location of the few guards on duty, Corvo blinks back down to street level, crouching and hurrying along in the shadows. There’s another staircase down to the water, and he climbs down, glad that this puts him out of the line of sight of the men on the road.

                He can’t hear the hissing, but briefly consulting the heart proves that the item is indeed in the water below him. Before anything else, he immediately moves to take off his shoes, remembering how awful it had been to spend those days in waterlogged boots. He shrugs off his bag, gloves, and jacket too, leaving them all in a pile against the wall. He doesn’t particularly want to wear a cold, wet mask either, so he tentatively detaches it from his face, placing it gently atop his bag. After a moment of staring unhappily into the water, he unbuttons and removes his shirt as well. At that point, there’s not much more he can do unless he wants to dive into the canal naked, and he has to admit to himself that he’s just putting the whole thing off. Goosebumps have already erupted over his skin, simply from contact with the chilled air.

                Tentatively, he slides from the platform into the water, trying his best to keep quiet to better avoid alerting the guard. He cannot stop his gasp as the water closes around his legs, and he thinks darkly that the magic better be worth this effort. Taking a breath, he slides beneath the surface, squinting his eyes against the blur of the water. He can see a spot of white against deep brown, and he kicks downward, batting aside river weed with every stroke. His fingers close around the now familiar shape of a whalebone rune, and he pushes off again back up to the surface, his feet squelching uncomfortably against the mud.

                He pulls himself out of the water, sending a small cascade of river brine over the concrete. Immediately, he wrings as much water from his hair and pants as he can, feeling himself start to shiver. He puts the mask back on before anything else, followed quickly by the rest of his clothes. He doesn’t bother putting the gloves back on; they had only gotten in his way. The legs of his pants cling unpleasantly with cold water, but it is already better much than what he has faced before.

                Corvo puts this rune into the bag too, pulling out the heart instead and verifying the location of the remaining pieces of magic. He frowns, tilting the heart from side to side, but he hadn’t been mistaken. There are now _three_ points of resonance, not the final two he had been expecting. Two seem to be where they should be, but a third has sprung into existence further along the line of the canal. Shrugging to himself, Corvo double checks that his sword is in easy reach, and he heads toward this new magical artifact.

                He travels for some distance, unimpeded by guards or rats or civilians, following along the edge of the canal. He passes a streetlamp, and an alarm begins to sound. He stiffens and instinctively teleports up onto an exposed air-circulating unit, looking around for what had given his presence away. But his concern had been for nothing. A floodgate at the far end of the canal is simply rising, allowing for a wide cargo ship to pass further upriver. An idea strikes Corvo, and the heart confirms his suspicion; the new magic is somewhere on this boat. That explains where it had suddenly come from, at any rate. If he moves quickly enough, he can get the magic and leave without anyone the wiser.

                He blinks back down to the street, behind the shadow of a supply crate. He casts Dark Vision briefly, and then makes the last short jump to the deck of the ship, avoiding the sight of the crewmembers on board. The heart directs him belowdecks, and he slips through the nearby door, dropping into dimly lit wooden hallways.

                He walks through several corridors, passing narrow portholes showing the slowly passing walls of the canal outside. The heart directs him into a door at his left, and he comes into a cargo hold, stacked high with crates and baskets. He weaves among the aisles, finding the bone charm tucked into a space between a bucket and the wall. As he pockets this and the heart, a voice snaps behind him, “ _What_ do you think you’re doing?”

                Corvo whirls, retrieving and extending his sword in one motion. But it’s not a sailor behind him, instead a small group of heavily tattooed men and women, all clutching whaling harpoons or machetes. At their head stands a sneering, barefoot woman, a gaff hook slung over her shoulder. Corvo recognizes her from the wanted posters; she’s Lizzy Stride, the leader of a river gang called the Dead Eels.

                She glances down at his sword, clearly unimpressed. “Clear off,” she says. “We’ve got a claim here, and we don’t need to deal with a small-time crook too chickenshit to show his face.”

                Corvo’s thoughts race. She thinks he’s a competing thief, and doesn’t seem inclined to fight him as he might have feared. If he can speak carefully enough, he might get out of the situation without earning himself the enmity of one of the largest gangs left in Dunwall.

                Or, a tiny part of him whispers, if he acts wisely, he could go farther, and make himself some new allies, in case his stay with the Loyalists doesn’t work out. Lizzy may not be the most trustworthy of people, but she has to have a good head on her shoulders if she can keep a handle on the dozens of men and women that make up the Dead Eels. Surely there is something he can do to earn her trust, or at least her respect?

                And if he does, he might have found an alternate means of handling the twins. Lizzy _has_ to have the capability to hold two men out of the public eye for a while, right?

                Raising his left hand in a placating gesture, he retracts the blade, slipping it back into his coat pocket. “Don’t let me get in the way,” he says.

                Lizzy glares at him for a long moment, before she gestures at the assembled men and women behind her. They nod and start descending upon the stacked cargo, shifting down boxes by the dozen, cracking them open and pulling out the valuables within. They must be looking for something in particular, if they’re taking the time to sort through the objects individually.

                Lizzy ignores all of this and approaches Corvo, her face still set in a suspicious scowl. “You go swimming in the river?” she sneers. He notes with something between amusement and alarm that each and every one of her teeth have been filed into points. “You smell like shit.”

                Just then, there is the sound of shattering and a muffled curse. Lizzy whips around, glaring toward the source of the noise. A dark haired waif of a woman stands amid shards of china and dishware, a sharp-toothed and sheepish grin on her face.

                “That’s coming out of your pay, Bang-Bang.”

                As Bang-Bang goes back to unloading, more carefully this time, Corvo takes the moment to step forward again, sure to hold himself in an unthreatening a manner as possible. “What are you looking for?” he starts, wincing internally at how foolish he sounds, “Maybe I could find it for you.” If he’s lucky, it should glow green in his Dark Vision.

                The look Lizzy gives him is pure skepticism. “You’re angling for a _job_?” She demands. “Why-”

                The door to the cargo hold bursts open. As one, Corvo, Lizzy, and the Dead Eels move for their weapons, or in Bang-Bang’s case, heft a huge silver candlestick over her head. A tattooed man stumbles into the room, bleeding heavily from a vicious bite along his arm. He glances once at Corvo, then turns to Lizzy, saying, “Boss. I’m back.”

                “Jacob,” Lizzy calls, letting her hook thunk point-first into the floor. “Finally. Where’s Hawking?”

                “Dead,” the newcomer replies curtly.

                “Dead?” Lizzy snaps, her face dropping instantly back into a scowl. “What happened?”

                Jacob comes further inside, leaning heavily on a stack of crates. One of the Eels shifts out of his way, watching the exchange with interested dark eyes. “There’s wolfhounds all over the property, boss. A couple of them got hold of him, and, well…”

                “Shit,” she drawls, the word drawn out in displeasure. “And I suppose you don’t have my ring?”

                He shakes his head. “Couldn’t even get inside. Barely got away as it is.”

                “What ring?” Corvo interjects. Several pairs of eyes turn to face him, and he hurries to elaborate, “I could get it.”

                “ _You_?” Lizzy demands, and the incredulity in her voice is almost insulting. “You think you could do better than two of my best men?”

                “Yes,” Corvo replies firmly. Feeling emboldened by her continuing stare, he presses, “And when I come back with the ring, we can talk about what you’ll owe me.”

                The silence that falls is disbelieving. In the background, several Dead Eels exchange glances, largely shocked. After a long moment, Lizzy breaks out into a series of loud guffaws, her pointed teeth flashing in the light. “Well, you’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” she says. “If you want to feed yourself to the hounds so damn bad, who am I to stop you? And if you somehow _do_ manage to get the ring, all the better for me.”

                Corvo grins, unseen, behind his mask. “Let’s hear the details,” he says. “Where am I going?”

                “The Blair Estate. Lord Blair’s got a signet ring that could be very useful to someone in my line of work.” She leers, a gleam in her eyes. “Big, complex thing, crossed arrows and branches behind the Blair crest. He barely ever wears it, so it should probably be somewhere in his office. If you do pull it off, come to my boat, the Undine, out in Drapers Ward. The Eels should let you through.”

                Corvo nods, retracting and pocketing the sword he had drawn at Jacob’s sudden appearance. Heading for the door, he says, “I’ll see you then.”

                Behind him, he can hear Lizzy mutter, “Crazy bastard,” under her breath.

                He passes several Dead Eels lining up the unconscious bodies of sailors, draping them carelessly against the wall. He gets several suspicious looks, but he passes by unhindered. Taking a running leap, he jumps from the deck back to the street, moving quickly to get out of the sunlight.

                He knows the Blair Estate, at least. Lizzy’s not quite accurate in referring to him as “Lord” Blair, since he holds no seat in the House of Lords in Parliament. But both Mr. and Mrs. Blair come from families ripe with aristocracy, and they have a great deal of money. Corvo remembers a dispute some years ago about property lines, or something, requiring government intervention. He had overseen the legalities at Jessamine’s request, and he still knows the way through the streets to the Blairs’ unusually large plot of land.

                Corvo weaves through the streets, eyes locked on a pair of watchmen leaning against a guard rail overlooking the canal. He would greatly prefer an alley, or better yet a way to the rooftops, but the sprawling-wide houses give very little opportunity for either. His only saving grace is that there are so few guards, and he hurries down the street, casting Dark Vision to better ensure he is not being followed.

                The Blair Estate comes into view, an elaborately carved façade surrounding a large oaken door. A single guard lingers nearby, leaning against the trunk of a tree. At least the wolfhounds aren’t waiting on the street, Corvo muses. He’d rather avoid them if he can, and if that means avoiding the Blair’s large yard in the back of their property, then so be it. Experimentally, he tests the distance of his blink against the distance to the guard, and finds himself a few meters short of his goal. He creeps forward and tries again, and finds the column of light just barely past the tree, this time. He blinks, and immediately turns and grabs the guard around the neck before the unreality even fades. He catches the man as he falls unconscious and lifts him up onto his shoulder. The Blair house has a second floor balcony on the front face, and Corvo thinks he can hide the unconscious man there, to keep him safe from rats and out of sight of any other watchmen. He can’t quite see the balcony from his place down on the street, so he aims his blink a little higher, readying himself for a short fall. He drops onto the weathered tile, gently lowering the guard to the floor.

                Corvo casts Dark Vision, looking inside through the walls. He sees no one immediately nearby, so he tries the door, and slips inside when he finds it unlocked. The décor inside is extremely rich and fine, full of solid wood furniture and elaborate rugs over the floors. In his Dark Vision, something large and rectangular glows green through a wall, and he takes a moment to wonder what it could be. It must be important somehow, if it registers with his magic.

                He sees the outline of a maid approaching his location, and he moves through another door to avoid her. He doesn’t quite know where to begin to look for Mr. Blair’s ring, but the hallway before him seems a good enough place to start.

                The first door he tries leads to a guest bedroom. The bed is furnished with stiff white sheets and blankets, folded so crisply and precisely Corvo suspects they haven’t been changed since they were placed. With the help of his Dark Vision, he finds a pile of coins on a side table, which he sweeps into his bag without a second thought. Now that he has a place to store the excess, he can pick up anything that happens to catch his interest.

                The room on the other side of the hall is locked, though he can see several indistinct green shapes within. The door beside this one reveals a bathroom, which has absolutely nothing to offer other than a copy of The Young Prince of Tyvia. Corvo leaves it where it is, a smirk on his face.

                The last door sits open, and from what he can see, it holds another guest room, in similar condition as the first. But a wolfhound slumbers within, curled into a glowing yellow ball in Corvo’s Dark Vision. He elects to pass this room by, watching his steps to ensure he doesn’t wake the hound with noise.

                He emerges from the hallway into a wide antechamber, two large staircases curving elegantly up from the ground floor. The walls and floor both seem to be some form of polished marble, shining impeccably white in the light of a large crystalline chandelier. From his spot in the meager shadows of the hallway, he can see several doorways on the lower floor, some hanging open to reveal rich carpets within. Maybe one of these is Mr. Blair’s office? But after the near-brush with the first wolfhound, Corvo is reluctant to teleport down that far, as it is beyond the range of his Dark Vision. He doesn’t know if there are more hounds, or servants, or the owners of the property themselves inside the rooms. He’ll check the rest of this floor first, he decides, while keeping an eye out for the occupants of the house with his magic.

                He follows around the curve of the lower staircase, coming to a non-descript door with the solitary form of a maid working inside. Corvo slips inside and gets an arm around her neck, feeling the bone charm on his hip flare to life and knock her unconscious unnaturally early. He tucks her into a corner behind a large air-circulating unit, pulling a key from her belt. He takes the moment to backtrack and return to the locked door, pleased to find that his new key fits into the lock easily.

                This room seems to be used largely for storage, various disused bits of furniture crammed into the small space. Two doses of Sokolov’s Health Elixir lie on a nearby shelf, next to several cases of pistol ammunition. Corvo takes them all, unclipping his pistol from its place on his chest to load several more bullets into the chamber. A quick scan with Dark Vision directs him to the far corner, where several glass bottles stand. The contents don’t look familiar, or even particularly useful to him, but since they glow green, he tucks them into his bag. Maybe Piero will have some use for them.

                He goes to leave the room, and freezes in place. A hound stands just outside the doorway, sniffing along a path on the floor. Corvo casts about for an alternate exit, and finds none; there’s only the one door, and the hound waiting beyond. There’s not even a rat he could possess and escape that way. But perhaps… He hasn’t tried, but his possession has worked so far on rats and hagfish, so maybe it would work on hounds as well? His only reservation is that every rat and hagfish he has possessed has died. Leaving a trail of dead hounds is a lot more conspicuous than he wants.

                He doesn’t see many options, however. He’s trapped in this room, and the wolfhound is nosing open the door. He pulls magic into his fist, muttering a quick prayer for success, and he watches as the hound shoves forward into the room. Its ears perk and its head swivels to face him and its lips pull back from its fangs in a snarl and Corvo lets the magic fly. The whispers swell in his ears and he has a moment of relief as he rushes across nothingness, and then he is in the hound’s mind.

                Walking a few steps to get used to the new skeletal structure, he notices something peculiar. The rats and fish had no impact in his thoughts, but he can feel the hound’s mind struggling against his own. The hound is still alarmed at Corvo’s appearance in its territory, and it wants to investigate closer, to drive him away, and it is actively fighting against Corvo’s control. He can overpower it with relative ease, but the fact that there is any resistance at all is entirely new.

                Corvo walks the hound’s body to the far corner of the room, and releases the hold on the magic. To his surprise, the hound doesn’t collapse dead to the floor, instead stumbling to the side, looking disoriented and shaking its head as if to dispel an irritating fly, but still very much alive. Corvo hurries back to the door, fishing in his pocket for the key. He locks the room behind him before the hound can truly recover, hoping that will buy him at least a little time.

                He continues his previous path, heading generally in the direction of the large, rectangular object in his Dark Vision. It leads him back around the staircase to a set of glass doors, displaying some sort of private art gallery within. It’s one of the paintings that’s glowing, and Corvo slips inside, curious. It depicts a dark-skinned woman, her hair done up into a knot of braids at the top of her head, bright white markings over her face and shoulders. She clutches what looks like a jawbone, staring challengingly out toward the viewer. A small plaque beneath the painting reads, “Interpolation of the Pandyssian Witch.” Corvo recognizes it as one of Sokolov’s works before he reads the man’s name lower on the plaque.

                After a moment’s thought, he lifts the frame from the wall, cracking the wood away from the canvas. He rolls this and slips into his bag, deciding that it must be important if it’s reacting with his magic.

                The room next to the gallery is a library, shelves from floor to ceiling holding hundreds of books. Corvo passes by regretfully. Another time, perhaps, when he’s not trespassing and worrying about hounds.

                He comes to the final hallway, finishing his circuit of the second floor. A man stands by himself in a side room, evidently pulling something down from a high shelf. Corvo opens the door, intending to sneak inside and choke the man into unconsciousness. But the door creaks loudly, and the man looks up, a scowl on his face. It’s Mr. Blair. “Who’s there?” he snaps. “I told you, no one is to-” He catches sight of Corvo crouched guiltily in the doorway, and his expression changes. He draws a sword that Corvo hadn’t even noticed from his belt, and before Corvo can do more than reach into his own pocket to do the same, he’s shouting, “Call the guards! Assassin!”

                Cursing, Corvo blinks forward, wanting to get behind Blair and choke him quiet before he can do any more damage, but in his haste, he miscalculates the distance. Blair’s eyes widen with surprise to see Corvo right in front of his face, even as he lashes out to strike.

                Internally, as he counters Blair blow for blow, Corvo despairs of himself. How many more simple mistakes is he going to make?

                He sees his opening and takes it, slamming the hilt of his sword hard into the side of Blair’s head. He reels, dazed, and Corvo takes the opportunity to grab him by the throat and send him to the floor, knocked out. A cursory search of the man’s hands and pockets reveals that he doesn’t have the ring on his person. Corvo does, however, take the money pouch from his belt, figuring there’s little harm the loss of a few coins could do compared to the swelling lump on his head.

                Moving back out into the hallway, Corvo is displeased to see several people rushing up the large staircases, a few curious hounds right at their heels. He scowls behind his mask, hoping that Mr. Blair’s office wasn’t down on that floor. He had seen another staircase by the library, leading upward, and he blinks toward it, taking the stairs two at a time.

                He startles Mrs. Blair on the landing, and she actually shrieks, shouting, “Help me!” and fleeing back the way she had come. Corvo ignores her and moves through a door she had passed by, completely relieved to find it to be Mr. Blair’s office. Wasting no time, he renews his Dark Vision, instantly spotting the green outline of a ring in a desk drawer. He yanks it open, disturbing several pens inside, and shoves the ring into a coat pocket. Looking around, he notices a glass door out onto a balcony, and he knows he’s found his way of escape.

                As he moves toward it, several hounds burst into the room, snarling and barking furiously. One slams into him from behind, sending him sprawling to the floor, while another grabs hold of his right arm and _pulls_. Even as Corvo bucks and thrashes to try and fight them off, he can hear the slow whine of a starting alarm and the thumping of several footsteps up the stairs.

                Now Corvo is really out of time. Thinking quickly, he twists his free hand to the hound still savaging his sleeve, pushing magic forward and sliding into the hound’s mind. He can hear a human gasp behind him as he settles down onto four legs, and he pushes past the hound’s anger and confusion to throw himself against the glass door. On the third strike, the glass shatters, and he rushes out onto the balcony, glass cutting into his paws. He abandons the hound’s body, reaching past the roaring exhaustion in his magic to blink up onto the roof of the Blair Estate. As he climbs up the roof to get out of sight of the balcony and the street, he hears shouts rising behind him, wild with panic.

                When he reaches the apex of the roof, he clutches at the ring in his pocket, verifying that it is still there. To ease the pounding in his head, he pulls out a vial of Remedy, removing the cap and letting it roll carelessly down the roof. The blue liquid is an incredible boon, soothing the ache and pushing away the gray threatening the edges of his vision. As soon as the bottle is empty, he lets it fall, rising back to his feet. If he can stick to the rooftops, he should avoid any guards rushing to investigate the scene, and, more importantly, get over the floodgate if it’s closed.

                Now that his adrenaline is beginning to fade, his arm throbs viciously. Through complete luck, his jacket sustained the majority of the damage, leaving his skin mostly unbroken. He knows that he’ll have terrible bruises later, but it’s better than having to worry about infection.

                He teleports from roof to roof, watching as streams of guards move down the roads toward the alarm. He passes overhead unseen, his boots quiet on the roof tiles.

                After a time, he comes to a gap that his powers can’t quite cross. The column of light shines brightly all the way down three stories to the street level, just short of the opposite roof. He breathes out slowly, peering down at the ground so far below. He could take the safe route and blink down, but then he’d have to contend with the floodgate. A quick glance around shows him there’s not a nearby alternate path, and he doesn’t really feel like backtracking far enough to find another junction of roofs, not while the guards are still pouring out in ever-increasing numbers.

                He tests the distance again, judging the gap by how far away the base of the column is from the wall of the building. If he can get a running start, he might be able to jump far enough to get his magic onto the far roof. Or, he might fall a dozen meters to the ground, breaking his bones and spilling his lifeblood over the cobblestones.

                Corvo looks down at the blue-black sheen of the Mark on his skin, feeling its cold radiate into his flesh. He thinks he can make it. And really, with the guards on high alert, he probably doesn’t have the chance to try and find another route. He either tries to make the jump here, or he resigns himself to hiding out among the swarms of rats until night falls.

                He moves back toward the center of the roof, giving him plenty of room to get up to speed. His boots do not slip at all on the roof tiles, and magic flares strong in his skin. With one last fortifying breath, he runs, footsteps thumping heavily. He leaps, aiming his magic up and across, and he _blinks_.

                His boots land solidly on the opposite roof, followed shortly by his hands when his forward momentum returns.  He pulls himself back to his feet and looks over his shoulder to the gap and the distant roof beyond. A laugh tries to bubble out of his throat without his permission, and he lets the magic wash through his veins, “Thank you,” on his lips.

                The patchwork of roofs continues uninterrupted from there. Once more, he comes to a wide gap that requires a running leap, and the thrill and relief when he safely lands is just as powerful as the first time.

                Then he’s back at the canal, moving parallel along the water until he comes to the floodgate. It’s solidly closed, as he expected, though thankfully he sees no guards anywhere nearby. The alarm at the Blair Estate is distant and quiet now, just a whining hum at the edge of his senses. Corvo walks across the rooftops, blinking from one to another, and just like that he is past the floodgate. He sticks to the rooftops for a while longer, looking for any sight of Samuel. The little boat comes into view in the distance, and quickly, he pulls his gloves back on and blinks down to street level. There aren’t many explanations for his presence on the rooftops that _don’t_ point to the supernatural.

                Samuel’s face is grim as Corvo approaches, a cigarette between his fingers wafting smoke into the air. “Did the business, did you?” he asks. He says nothing about the way Corvo’s pants still cling to his legs with river water.

                “Not exactly,” Corvo replies, settling back into his seat at the rear of the boat. At Samuel’s questioning look, he adds, “I need you to take me into Drapers Ward.”

                The look he receives in reply is extremely doubtful. “Why on earth would you need to go there?”

                Corvo feels his hand slip into his jacket pocket, clutching the ring still tucked away safely. “I’ve made arrangements to meet someone there.”

                Shaking his head, Samuel replies, “Even so, I can’t bring you much closer than here. I told you, Drapers Ward is gang territory.”

                Corvo’s smile remains hidden behind his mask. “We should be fine,” he dismisses. “I’m meeting with Lizzy Stride.”

                Samuel’s eyes widen and his cigarette teeters precariously in suddenly slack fingers. As the moment stretches without an admission of a joke, he laughs, shaking his head again. “You certainly don’t mess around, Corvo,” he says, flicking his cigarette away into the water and starting up the motor of the boat.

                They move away from the wall of the canal, heading back toward the Wrenhaven itself. Corvo settles back more steadily into his seat, pulling his bag into his lap to sort through the contents within. The bone charms and runes clatter against each other as he moves Sokolov’s Elixir off to one side for easy access.  He pulls his crossbow to the top of the bag, checking to see if the various forms of ammunition are nearby. The rolled painting and the glass bottles take up almost all of the rest of the room, and he eyes them speculatively. “Could I leave some things here in the boat?”

                Samuel nods, pulling open a hatch below Corvo’s feet, revealing a dark space within. Corvo mutters his thanks, tucking away the extraneous items and freeing up space. He’d also like to claim the bone charms, at least, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to do it without attracting Samuel’s attention. That’s not the sort of thing he wants to explain right now.

                Samuel turns the boat down a side inlet, toward one of the shipping harbors for Drapers Ward. He slows their speed until the rumble of the motor is nearly silenced, barely disturbing the surface of the water. “You sure about this, Corvo?” he mutters, visibly scanning the roads and buildings around them.

                “You can drop me off here, if you’d like,” Corvo says, gesturing to a staircase up to street level.

                Still looking uneasy, Samuel says, “I’m not sure I should drop you off at all-”

                A shout rends the air, followed shortly by the shattering of glass and a masculine yell of pain. Corvo whips around to face it, looking further toward the end of the inlet. “Drop me off now,” he says, buckling his bag shut and tensing.  “ _Now_.”

                Samuel pulls over to the staircase, that look of alarm on his face again. As Corvo leaps to the concrete before the boat even stops, he calls, “I’ll just wait for you here, shall I?”

                Corvo doesn’t respond, already dropping into the shadows. As soon as he is sure he’s out of earshot, he casts Dark Vision and peels off his gloves, looking for the source of the commotion. There’s nothing immediately nearby, giving him the chance to draw his sword. After a moment, he decides against taking out his crossbow or gun. His magic is much more versatile.

                He creeps down another road, watching all the while through the walls with his Dark Vision. A shout rises again, and there is the clash of metal on metal.  Two dueling yellow forms come into view, a short thin woman wielding a gaff hook pressing forward against a more bulky man with a knife. Corvo’s Dark Vision fades as he comes closer, and he can see that both wear clothes in the distinctive style of the Dead Eels. Corvo hesitates, watching as the man swings at the woman’s head, the strength of the slash ruffling her short hair. He doesn’t know who to aid, if he should help anyone. Perhaps there is a lot of infighting among the Eels naturally.

                Deciding not to interfere, he blinks past, ducking into the archway of a closed door. As he moves further along the inlet, he catches sight of a large boat, which he assumes to be the Undine. He can’t quite see onto the deck, but he’s rather distracted anyway, as he hears more and more sounds of fighting. He sees pairs and triads of Dead Eels battling each other, evidently intent on violence. While he watches, a woman throws down a glass vial at her opponent’s feet, sending a wave of bright green gas up over his body. The man roars in pain, stumbling back and wobbling on his feet. The glass grenades must contain some sort of acid.

                Corvo passes unnoticed around the edges of the raging battle, blinking down onto a pipe when he gets the opportunity. From this vantage point he can see onto the deck of the ship. More gang members are fighting amongst each other, the flashing of more gaff hooks and whaling harpoons shining in the sun. Corvo moves further along pipe, frowning down at the chaos, wondering what he should do. Just as he’s about to reveal his presence and see what that would achieve, two burly men rise from the depths of the Undine, a third, smaller figure clasped between them. Corvo raises a hand, adjusting the wheel next to the right lens of his mask, zooming in. The figure thrashes, kicking at the back of their captors’ knees, sending one of the men into a stumble. They wrench an arm free, spinning to punch their other captor. It’s Lizzy.

                Corvo ducks down further, running through the options in his head. His arrangement with Lizzy is tenuous at best, built largely on her disbelief. But it is an arrangement nonetheless, and he doesn’t want to go back on it. It looks like there is a serious mutiny going down among the Eels, and it doesn’t look like Lizzy is winning. After a moment, Corvo pulls out his crossbow, loading in the sleep darts. He has no idea which side the other fighting gang members support, but he knows at least the loyalties of the men struggling to hold Lizzy. Corvo blinks from the pipe to the roof of the ship’s upper deck, lining up his shot. This first dart fires true, sinking into one of the men’s shoulders. By the time Corvo loads the second, the man falls, evidently unconscious. Even as the second dart flies forward, Corvo muses that Piero’s sleep toxin is certainly effective.

                Lizzy looks up as her captors both fall unconscious around her, and she catches sight of Corvo perched high above, crossbow still in hand. The look of surprise on her face is quickly replaced by a short nod of thanks. She quickly ducks and pulls a gaff hook from one of the unconscious men’s belt, testing its weight and heft in her hand. Deeming it suitable, she stomps toward the meat of the fight, her bare feet dark against the deck of the ship.

                Already, several of the Eels have stopped fighting, watching Lizzy to see what she would do even as they panted and bled. Lizzy comes to a clear space on deck, and she glares out toward the road. She puts two fingers in her mouth and a harsh whistle pierces the air, startling several more Eels out of battle. “Wakefield!” she shrieks, slinging her pilfered hook up onto her shoulder. “Come face me like a man! Or are you just a coward?”

                A man steps down from the upper deck, blood plainly visible on a long knife at his side.  Corvo’s somewhat disappointed to see that he looks utterly unremarkable, just another bald and tattooed thug with cut off sleeves and a surplus of belts. Corvo was expecting something… more, from the man attempting to overthrow Lizzy.

                Wakefield scoffs, glaring down at Lizzy from his place on the stairs. “You’re ruinin’ us, Lizzy,” he calls, drawing his knife. “When’s the last time we had enough food to go around?”

                “There’s a fucking _plague_ , you idiot,” she spits. “Or did you not notice, since you’re so keen to sit back while the rest of us do the real work?” She drops into a fighting stance, her teeth bared in a snarl. “Come fight me, coward.”

                Like a signal has been given, Wakefield and Lizzy dash forward, meeting in a clash of metal. But Lizzy is clearly more skilled with her gaff hook than Wakefield with his short knife. She slaps his clumsy slash away with the long handle of the hook, jabbing him harshly in the gut with the end. Wakefield gives a pained grunt, retreating back up a few steps and holding his knife inexpertly before him. Corvo relaxes into an easy crouch, retracting and folding away his sword. Lizzy seems to have this handled completely, and he might as well enjoy the show.

                Suddenly, Corvo feels he understands the Outsider a little better. He smirks at the thought, and at the way his Mark flares bright without any input from him.

                Lizzy snarls, “Oh, no you don’t,” catching the back of Wakefield’s leg with her free hand and tugging him harshly off balance. Wakefield doesn’t quite fall, but he definitely stumbles, the hand with the knife flying out to brace on the railing. As he recovers his footing Lizzy pursues him relentlessly, chasing him upward and toward the higher deck. Corvo follows them along the edge of the roof, peering around the ship’s smokestack when it blocks his view.

                Wakefield tries to push his advantage when he’s the first to get onto even ground, stabbing out toward his pursuer with a short blunt movement. Lizzy dodges smoothly and almost irritably, retaliating with a slap with the side of her hook. Wakefield finds himself being driven back by brutal slashes and jabs, until he’s up against a railing, his back to the other Dead Eels so far below. He seems to get desperate, throwing punches with his off hand nearly as often as he swings the knife. The third time, he actually lands a hit, sending Lizzy reeling backward, her toes splayed over the deck. She snarls, and even from his position, Corvo can see blood on her sharp teeth.

                Emboldened by his brief success, Wakefield stands upright, opening his arms wide. “You can’t win, Lizzy! You’re not fit to lead!”

                Lizzy moves so fast that Corvo can barely see it. One moment she’s leaning on the handle of her gaff hook, wiping blood from her face with the back of her hand, and the next she’s charging forward, driving the point of her hook into Wakefield’s thigh. He shrieks, knife falling from his hand, knee buckling beneath him, and Lizzy follows him down, throwing all of her weight onto the hook’s handle. Lizzy releases the hook, leaving it sticking out of Wakefield’s bleeding leg, and she kicks him in the ribs for good measure. He collapses onto his back, a cry tearing itself from his lips. Mouth still bleeding, Lizzy comes to the railing, looking down at the rest of the assembled Dead Eels with their hooks and blades and acid grenades. “Anyone _else_ got an issue with my leadership?”

                The silence is resounding, broken only by Wakefield’s pained groaning. Lizzy kicks him in the side again, a look of disgust on her face. When the Dead Eels make no attempt to respond, Lizzy spits onto the deck, her saliva stained red. “Maggot!” she calls, and a man among the ranks startles, stepping forward. “Round up my men, and bring me a list of the traitors.” She grins, bloody teeth shining in the light. “We’re gonna have a nice chat.”

                As the Dead Eels murmur among themselves, sounding displeased, Lizzy steps back from the railing, turning to face Corvo up on the roof. “Didn’t think you’d show up,” she says, crossing her arms and cocking out a hip.

                “Got your ring,” Corvo says, pulling it from his pocket and letting it glint in the sun. Lizzy hold ups a hand, and Corvo tosses it down to her, watching her snatching it out of the air.

                Lizzy studies the ring, her mouth twisting wryly. “I know. Half the damn city heard the alarm.” She glances up at him, her eyebrows raised. “You do realize this is useless to me now, right?”

                Corvo tenses guiltily. He hadn’t thought about it, but it makes sense. Since he had made quite the impression in the Blair Estate, they’ll realize almost immediately that the ring is gone. If Lizzy tries to use it on any paperwork, they’ll immediately know it as fraudulent. So sure, he had gotten the ring, but he had also rendered it completely unusable.

                “Whatever,” Lizzy says, tucking the ring into a pouch at her belt. She jerks her head at the control station for the Undine. “Come on down and you can finally tell me whatever the fuck it is you want from me.”

                Corvo drops from the roof onto a stack of crates and then onto the deck itself. Lizzy gestures him toward the steering mechanism, leaning back against a nearby wall. Corvo has to pass Wakefield where he lies twitching pitifully in a slowly spreading pool of his own blood. Corvo gestures toward him as he comes to a stop in front of Lizzy, asking, “What do you plan to do with him?”

                She shrugs, making a face. “Might pluck out his eyes, might toss him in the river for the hagfish. Might have someone truss him up and drop him off for the Watch.” She scowls. “Coward was gonna do the same to me. Couldn’t even take me out himself. Fucking bastard.”

                “But enough about that,” she continues. “You may have fucked up getting my ring, but I saw what you did.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the two unconscious bodies down on the lower deck. “I don’t like owing people, so you’re gonna tell me what you want.”

                Corvo grins, casting about for how he wants to frame his request. “I’ve been hired,” he eventually decides, “to eliminate a pair of aristocrats. But my employer doesn’t want them dead – just out of the way for a while.” He has no idea if Lord Pendleton actually cares one way or the other. But he has no desire to explain the intricacies, not when he’s just barely earned Lizzy’s trust.

                “And what do you want me to do?” she asks.

                “I can get them out of their house,” Corvo says, “but I have nowhere to keep them.”

                Slowly, she grins to as she catches his meaning. “I’d be glad to keep a couple of assholes locked up. Who we talking about here?”

                “The Pendleton twins,” Corvo says.

                Her grin turns feral. “ _Fan_ tastic. I know just the place. Wanna see?”

                Corvo nods. “Might as well.”

                Lizzy leads the way down the stairs, stepping casually over the unconscious mutineers. The other Dead Eels part before her, carefully avoiding her gaze. Lizzy walks off of the ship, leading Corvo toward a squat building a short distance away. Corvo’s mildly alarmed to see that it’s sealed shut with a bright red plague barrier, but Lizzy pulls it down and away with ease. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, correctly interpreting his dubious silence. “Just to keep out anyone who doesn’t belong when the Undine’s away.”

                The space inside is largely damp and dark, but there is a faint and distinctive violet light emanating from one corner. At the sight of it, Lizzy scowls. “I told them to keep this kinda shit out of here.”

                Corvo finds himself stepping forward, taking in the sight of the Outsider shrine against the wall. As he approaches, the hissing and popping of the rune comes into focus, the dark aura sparkling in the dim light. He looks at Lizzy over his shoulder, silently studying the look on her face. She stands silhouetted in the light from the outside, the shadowed parts of her body dimly lit in violet. He can see as her eyes flick from his mask, to the shrine, to the uncovered Mark on the back of his hand. After a long moment, she crosses her arms and says, “Take it. It’ll serve you better than any of my Eels.”

                Corvo nods his thanks, turning back to the shrine and lifting the rune. He closes his eyes, expecting the flare of the Void as it comes. The darkness of the tiny building deepens into solid black, and the Outsider appears, lit incongruently brightly from all sides. He stares down at Corvo standing before the shrine, a gleam in his black eyes. “I had not expected to encounter you here,” he says. “This rune was intended for another.”

                “Should I leave it?” Corvo asks, even as his fingers try to clench possessively around the carved bone. He forcibly holds it loosely in his hands, reminding himself of the madness that lay down that particular path of obsession.

                “I think not,” the Outsider says, his mouth curling just barely at the corners. “I’m quite interested to see what your interference will cause. Already, the futures have begun changing.” His gaze goes unfocused, and he looks into some point in the distance over Corvo’s shoulder. His smirk widens, and he murmurs, “I look forward to your reactions when you realize what you’ve done.”

                The Void rushes with noise, and the Outsider fades in bits and pieces, leaving Corvo standing before the shrine, Lizzy a silent spectator behind him.

                “That’s fucking creepy,” she says.

                Corvo raises an eyebrow questioningly, then realizes she couldn’t possibly see it through his mask. “What is?” he asks, and he is surprised to find his voice is suddenly a dry rasp, twisting his words until they become unintelligible. He clears his throat and repeats himself, tasting salt on his tongue.

                She just shakes her head. She walks forward, tapping a foot against a metal hatch in the floor. “This is the only other way out of this place, and it locks, and I’ve got the key. Even if they do somehow pry it open, it dumps straight into the river, and the hagfish have been pretty fierce this month. Good enough for you?”

                Corvo accepts the blatant change of subject, tucking the rune away into his bag as he surveys the rest of the room. It’s tiny and cramped, full of crates and permeated with the stink of the river, but it seems solid enough. “I don’t want them dead,” he reiterates, wondering if Lizzy just intended to lock the Pendletons inside and leave them to starve. “And I don’t know how long I’ll need them out of the picture.”

                Lizzy waves a hand dismissively. “Despite what that idiot said back there, the Eels aren’t hurting for food or elixir or anything. We’ve got a nice deal with the Bottle Street Boys for that. The Pendletons will be just _fine_ for as long as you need.” She grins. “You don’t mind if they get a little bruised up, at least, do you? Some of us had some dealings with them before, and let’s just say failed to uphold their end of the deal satisfactorily.”

                Corvo shakes his head. “Do whatever you want with them. I only need them alive.”

                She claps her hands. “Excellent. So I’ll just hang around here, dealing with the fucking mess of traitors that I’ve got on my hands, and you can go out and fetch yourself a couple of inbred shit stains. Sound like a deal?”

                At Corvo’s nod, she offers her hand to shake, and he takes it, her thumb curling over the back of his Marked hand. The Mark flares and she flinches away, looking at her thumb as if it had been burned. “Void take me,” she mutters, glancing up at Corvo from beneath her short lashes. “You’re the real deal, aren’t you? You one of Daud’s?”

                The name rings familiar, but Corvo cannot quite place it. Curling his hands subconsciously into loose fists at his side, he says, “No, I’m not.”

                Still shaking out her hand, Lizzy says, “It doesn’t matter.” She leads the way back out from the small building, beckoning for Corvo to follow. As he moves to obey, she glances over her shoulder and says, “You know, if you can get past a couple of weepers, we’ve got another one of those whalebones.” She points to where a railcar is partially parked in a storage room, jammed in between the half-shut iron bars. Beyond, Corvo can see at least two Dead Eels, bent nearly double as harsh, hacking coughs wrack their bodies. Atop the railcar is a gap wide enough to fit through, blocked by a tripwire. If Corvo strains his ears, he can just barely hear more hissing and singing through the gap.

                Since Lizzy already knows, Corvo just murmurs his thanks, curling his hand to call the Void. It feels strange, blinking in plain view of another person that’s not Emily, and he finds himself pausing atop the railcar, glancing down at Lizzy back on the ground.

                The look on her face is somewhere between unsettled and amazed. She spits onto the ground, mouth still rimmed in her own blood. “Remind me not to get on your bad side,” she mutters, turning her back and stalking off toward the Undine. As she steps onto the deck, he can hear her beginning to castigate the loitering Eels.

                Corvo shifts his attention back to the tripwire. He can’t see what sort of mechanism it’s attached to, and knowing the Dead Eels and their predilection for acid grenades, he doesn’t think he particularly wants to. He draws his sword, triggering the trap and darting backward out of its reach. The noise draws up sounds of alarm from the Eels on the boat, and Lizzy shouts over them, “Shut it, all of you! I’m _talking_ here!”

                The commotion dies down and the smoke clears, and now Corvo can move inside. The weepers have grown agitated, and they groan up at him atop the railcar, bleeding eyes dazed and unfocused. He can see the rune now, lying atop a barrel nearby. If he moves quickly enough, he thinks he can grab it and leave before the weepers have a chance to react.

                He drops to the ground of the storage room, sliding his hand around the rune and aiming his blink back atop the railcar. The sounds of the weepers’ moans go slow and warped in the unreality, sounding twice as threatening as normal. Corvo is glad to put the little room behind him, retracting his sword and putting the rune away in his bag.

                As he passes the Undine on his way back to Samuel, Lizzy cuts off her tirade at her subordinates, shouting at his retreating back, “You owe me for that grenade!”

                With a small smile, Corvo gives a wave of acknowledgement, pulling on his gloves. He comes back to Samuel’s boat without incident, startling the old boatman out of a reverie as he stares out over the water. “What now, Corvo?” he asks. “I assume your… dealings with Miss Stride went well, then?”

                “Very,” Corvo replies, climbing into his seat. “She’s agreed to help me with the Pendletons.”

                Samuel’s face goes slightly solemn, and he asks, “What do you mean by that?”

                Corvo grins behind his mask. “I bring her the Pendletons,” he says, “And she keeps them locked up and out of the way until I take down Burrows.”

                Samuel’s eyes widen. “You don’t plan to kill them?”

                “They’ve done me no wrong,” Corvo replies, and he knows his tone has gone a little challenging.

                “No,” Samuel hurries to say, “Not at all.”

                “Then I won’t kill them,” Corvo retorts. “I’ve no reason to.”

                Samuel falls silent, studying the defensive tilt to Corvo’s shoulders. Quietly, he says, “You’re quite the surprise, aren’t you?”

                You have no idea _,_ Corvo thinks, curling his hands and listening to the Mark humming beneath his gloves.


	8. Chapter 8

                Since they’ve been given free run by Lizzy, Samuel takes them through the canals of the Drapers Ward, approaching the Estate District from the other side. The alarm has faded by now, but guards still roam the streets. Any advantage Corvo once had in the relatively safety of this half-empty district is gone completely.

                Samuel lets them drift to a stop at the base of a staircase. “Pendleton Manor should be on the next street over,” he says, voice scarcely above a whisper. “You’ll have to be quick. I don’t think the Watch’ll take kindly to me loitering here.” He indicates a bridge over the canal. “I’ll be under there until you need me, alright?”

                Corvo nods, drawing his sword and activating the mechanism. As it flexes and extends and he takes the first cautious steps onto concrete, Samuel mutters, “Be careful, Corvo,” and pulls away.

                Corvo waits until the boatman’s back is turned, and he blinks up onto the street, making the short dash to the shaded archway of a door. There are three guards he can see, two standing beneath a street lamp, talking in low undertones, and the last patrolling the length of the road. This final man currently has his back to Corvo’s improvised hiding place, and Corvo knows it is only due to this that he hasn’t yet been spotted. He casts about for an alternate path, but the irritating lack of awnings and vent shafts in this district thwarts him, and he’s stuck in place on the ground. The only nearby option for upward movement is a streetlamp, and he’s not sure it would support his weight. Well, he won’t know until he tries, and the watchman has reached the far end of the road, about to turn and face him, so he doesn’t have much to lose.

                He aims upward and blinks. Air rushes and he is – _beside_ the lamp, but not quite high enough. Scrambling, he catches hold of the pole with both hands, cursing the fact that he hadn’t yet taken off his gloves. With quite a bit of difficulty, he pulls himself upward, finally coming to a stop crouched at the top. Though he feels extremely precarious, perched as he is, the streetlight seems to support his weight without protest.

                Immediately, he looks to the patrolling guard, glad to see that his flurry of movement had drawn no attention. Then he pulls off his gloves and tucks them away, scowling as he does so. There has to be something better than this ridiculous on-off, on-off.

                Since this first lamppost seems to have done the trick, Corvo aims his blink to the next light down the line, trusting that he’ll stay out of the notice of the two guards below. This time he ensures he’ll land on _top_ of the fixture, not next to it. He teleports, and the conversation of the guards suddenly warps into focus.

                “-said he was wearing some kind of mask. Looked like a skull,” one guard is saying, trying to shield his cigarette against the wind. “Just sounds like a nut job to me.”

                “But then how did he vanish?” his companion retorts. “They said one minute the hounds had him, and the next he was gone, and one of their purebreds was smashing apart their window. It _has_ to be black magic!”

                A scoff. “You believe that Overseer crap? They probably had too much to drink, and missed him climbing out the window himself.”

                “It was a three story drop!” The second guard gesticulates wildly, throwing up one hand and gesturing vaguely toward the rooftops. “Explain that one to me, and _tell_ me it wasn’t magic.”

                Corvo blinks past to the next streetlight, frowning behind his mask. From the sound of it, his reputation as a witch is already beginning to spread. Whether that will work to his advantage or his detriment will have to be determined.

                He’s never been to Pendleton Manor, but from the way Samuel and Treavor Pendleton had both referred to it, it must be distinct and obvious. He takes a narrow side street, dropping back to the ground, eyes wide with Dark Vision to check for watchmen. There are several on the next large road, spread all across the street. Corvo presses himself to a wall, craning around the bricks, watching the guards and studying their patrol routes. There’s a temporary guard station just past the mouth of his side street, a man standing inside and surveying the rest of the Watch. Past the station is the back of a large estate, probably Pendleton Manor, separated from the road by a large iron gate with an elaborate ‘P’ spread in calligraphy over the top. Corvo mentally revises his estimation of the Pendletons’ wealth up a few notches at the sight. There is a well-tended garden on the other side of the fence, flowers and shrubs meticulously groomed into whatever their gardener deemed most aesthetically pleasing. He follows around the outer perimeter with his eyes, looking past the yard and coming to an unassuming door in the side of the building. That must be the servants’ entrance.

                Corvo retreats further into the shadows, letting out a slow breath and feeling it reflect against the inside of his mask. He still has no rooftop access, and there are so many guards on the road, but his goal is at last in sight. He considers slowing time to blink across the street, but he only has one vial of remedy, and he’d rather keep his magic in reserve in case he really needs it. He recasts Dark Vision, watching the pacing guards through the wall, measuring the timing of their footsteps. There’s not a large enough gap between guards for him to slip by without being seen. Experimentally, he tests the range of his blink, but it only extends halfway down the road. He takes a step forward to adjust the angle, and he nudges an empty bottle on the ground with his toe.

                Struck by inspiration, he picks up the bottle, studying the path of the guards. A watchman passes by, and Corvo throws the bottle, letting it shatter on the cobblestones near the guard’s feet. As he makes sounds of alarm, drawing the attention of his companions, Corvo dashes out from the side street, pulling magic into his fist. Between one step and the next, he blinks, slamming down onto the concrete by the iron gate. He’s running again before time catches up, pulling Pendleton’s key from his pocket and unlocking the servants’ entrance door. He slides inside and shuts the door behind him, looking toward the guards with Dark Vision, relieved to see that they hadn’t seemed to notice him.

                He turns instead to the manor, finding himself in a dark and cramped hallway. A room off to his right is vibrant with glowing green items, and he opens the door to reveal a kitchen. A plate of little tarts sits waiting on one counter, a bowl of fruit on another, and several more unidentified things hidden behind cupboard doors. The smell of the tartlets washes over him, and he is viscerally reminded that he’s had little more to eat than a tin of meat and an apple in the last two days. With a surreptitious glance toward the door, Corvo tilts up his mask, picking up a tartlet and biting down. Apricot sweetness bursts on his tongue, and he stifles a groan. Too long he has subsisted on stale bread and rationed elixir, and the pastry and sugar is completely amazing to his deprived senses.

                Corvo downs a second tart even as he pulls open the cabinet doors, revealing the food within. After such a long time in plague conditions, the majority of the foods are things that can be well preserved, canned fruits and meats, dried and salted fish, various jellies and preserves. Corvo takes a loaf of bread from a nearby breadbox and a jar of fig jelly, thinking of the barren cupboards in his and Emily’s hideaway. Along the same vein, he takes a handful of cutlery from a drawer and two sturdy-looking wooden cups. Anything else would be a luxury he can’t afford, not with the limited space in his bag.

                Shamelessly taking the last tartlet from the plate, he returns to the hallway, watching the path ahead of him with magic in his eyes. The next two rooms he passes are deserted, and the lack of any glowing green within tells him to move on without investigating further.

                He comes to a staircase and a doorway, evidently leading from the servants’ quarters out into the manor itself. Corvo takes the doorway first, doubting very much that any nobleman would ever even set foot in the servants’ wing of their building. The doorway opens into a large dining room, a long table set with intricate floral centerpieces. Through a set of open double doors, Corvo can see a ballroom of sorts, with wide open floors and a small raised dais for musicians. The dining room is deserted, but there is a maid kneeling on the ballroom floor, a rag in her hand and a bucket beside her. Corvo turns the other way instead, moving into the next room.

                He’s found the front of the building, the large foyer and expansive staircases framing a long elaborate rug, probably Serkonan in make judging from the design. He can see an office off to one side, stacked high with shelves that probably hold records of parliamentary proceedings. A quick scan with Dark Vision shows no one inside, though something green does catch his eye. He pulls the door open and goes to investigate, stepping quietly across the rich hardwood floors. A dose of Piero’s Remedy lies carelessly atop a desk, and Corvo tucks it into his bag without hesitation. The room has nothing else to offer, so he moves on, heading toward the staircase.

                Corvo smiles as two yellow silhouettes come into view, just behind a wall to his left. He can tell from their outlines alone that they aren’t maids or guards, not with vests and shirtsleeves in that particular style. Corvo follows around the edge of the room, coming to the only door. Angry conversation bursts and swells, and he crouches in place, watching through the wall as one of the brothers paces up and down the room.

                “We can’t,” one says, visibly tracking the path of his brother’s pacing. “He blames _us_ for losing the girl.”

                “Why should he?” The other snaps, continuing to wear a track into the floor. “What were we supposed to do? Stay and catch plague? Bring the brat to the Manor?” Corvo can hear the scowl in his voice as he continues, “Our hands were tied and he knows it.”

                Corvo scowls himself. So the Loyalists’ guess was right; the twins were responsible for Emily’s imprisonment. But it’s done now, he reminds himself, and Emily is safe, and free from them. She’s safe now, and these men will never hurt her again.

                “We don’t want to make an enemy out of him,” the first twin reasons, crossing his arms. “He controls this city. He could ruin us with a word.”

                “I know!” the second explodes. He stops his pacing, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply. More quietly, he repeats, “I know.” He turns to face his brother, and there’s still frustration in his voice when he says, “But I _detest_ being a prisoner in my own home.”

                Corvo scrambles backward away from the door, retreating from the approaching footsteps. He watches with Dark Vision as he sweeps from the room, vanishing further down the hall. The other twin remains behind, sighing and staring down at the floor.

                Now’s Corvo’s chance.

                He slips into the room, readying his blink in case he needs to react quickly. Holding his breath, he creeps up behind the nobleman, and he lunges, getting an arm around his neck. Lord Pendleton chokes and his hands fly up to pry at Corvo’s forearm, but he doesn’t have the strength. Corvo catches him as his falls unconscious, and hefts him up onto his shoulder, keeping his left hand free for his magic. He’ll take this one out to Samuel, and return for the other brother later.

                He returns to the hallway, scanning around to ensure he won’t encounter another person. He’ll look for a balcony, and maybe that will let him get up onto the rooftops.

                He passes another room with a pair of maids inside, one evidently holding a broom, the other gesturing like she’s holding a duster. Beyond this is another doorway, and Corvo slips inside to see some kind of guest bedroom. There’s a set of solid wood doors on the other side of the room, and he can only hope that it will lead him outside. They unlock easily at his touch, and he pushes them open, glad to see that he’s now looking down over the street.

                The guards are still patrolling as they were when Corvo passed them by, apparently having settled down after the excitement with the broken bottle. Corvo adjusts the unconscious Pendleton on his shoulder, looking up toward the roofs. Carefully, he climbs up onto the balcony railing, and he can just barely get his blink onto the roof of Pendleton Manor.

                From there, it is easy to circle around the rooftops, blinking from one building to another, and he crosses the street without once being seen by the guards. He hesitates before teleporting down onto the street by the canal, not at all looking forward to crossing through the guard-infested road again, but he sees little other choice. He lands lightly at the side of the waterway and moves down the staircase, gesturing to Samuel where he has hidden the boat beneath the bridge.

                Samuel’s eyes widen at the sight of the unconscious man over Corvo’s shoulder, and he pulls the little boat up to Corvo’s side. “Where’s the other one?” he asks.

                Corvo sets Pendleton down into the boat as he replies, “Still in the Manor.” After a moment’s thought, he pulls a sleep dart from its position in his crossbow, offering it to Samuel. “If he starts to wake,” he says in response to Samuel’s questioning look.

                Samuel nods, accepting the dart gingerly as if it were a venomous snake. “Hurry back,” he says, even as Corvo retreats back up the staircase.

                Since it worked last time, Corvo blinks up over the streetlights, moving from one to the other until he’s back in the little side street. This time, he feels no compunctions about calling the magic to slow time, following almost immediately with a blink to get across. He’ll worry about his reserves of magic later. The servants’ entrance is still unlocked, and he gets back inside the Manor with no problems.

                Now, all he has to do is get to the other twin without getting caught.

                He moves down the hallway with the comfort brought about by familiarity, Dark Vision in his eyes. He hesitates before opening the door out of the servants’ wing, remembering the maid cleaning the ballroom. Instead, he heads up to the second floor via the servants’ staircase, creeping along much more slowly now that he’s in unfamiliar territory.

                The hallway seems to be lined with servants’ sleeping quarters along one side, with doorways back to the manor on the other. Since he sees no one, Corvo intends to pass by without even his usual search for anything worth stealing. But as he passes the last door on the left, he hears the distinctive hum of magic, freezing him in his tracks. With one glance to ensure that there’s no one around, he opens the door and moves inside.

                The volume seems to double as soon as he passes the threshold, and he looks around, tilting his head from side to side, trying to pinpoint the noise. His search leads him to a little box tucked beneath a cot in the corner. Pulling it open reveals not only a bone charm, but also a rune, sending a cloud of miasma in front of his eyes and briefly obscuring his vision. He takes both and tucks them away into his bag, quieting the ringing, and he sees a small, hand-written note at the bottom of the box.

                _Melissa,_

_I need you to keep these hidden for me. The Overseers are raiding all the houses in my district,_

_and they’ve already carried off two women at the end of the street. I’ll be back for them once all_

_this dies down, I promise._

                Corvo sets the note inside the box, pushing both back under the cot. He hopes he hasn’t caused trouble for this Melissa in the future, but he needs the magic. He doesn’t have a choice.

                He goes back to the hallway, casting Dark Vision again. The next chance he gets, he moves out of the servants’ quarters, creeping down the hallways lined with paintings and tapestries and glass cases filled with bits of Sokolov technology and various pieces of silverworking.  He has to take a sudden left turn to avoid a maid striding purposefully in his direction, which brings him into a small sitting room, a fireplace crackling brightly along one wall. Corvo crouches against the wall, watching the path of the maid, and it is for this reason that he doesn’t hear the footsteps until they are directly behind him.

                At the noise, he blinks to the other side of the room, eyes wide behind his mask, to see the other Pendleton brother with a sword in hand. The nobleman looks briefly shocked at Corvo’s blatant display of black magic, but his expression rapidly hardens. “What did you do with Morgan, witch?” he snaps.

                Corvo says nothing, drawing his own sword and fumbling in his bag. He pulls out the crossbow triumphantly, only to remember that he had given the loaded sleep dart to Samuel. Cursing under his breath, he digs around in his bag, trying to find his last dart.

                Pendleton doesn’t give him the time, rushing forward and performing a textbook fencer’s stab. Corvo blocks this easily, thinking that he would almost be offended that Pendleton thinks that is a legitimate fighting strategy, if it weren’t for the fact that he can’t really retaliate with one hand useless and wrist deep among loose coins and bits of magic bone.

                “Where’s my brother?” Pendleton snarls. “Tell me!” The next attack is a more legitimate slash, forcing Corvo to dance backwards and away. Finally, finally his fingers close around the small glass tube of the sleep toxin, and his struggle changes to loading the dart into his crossbow one-handed while still fighting off Pendleton’s attacks with his sword. He ends up backing around the room, periodically clashing blade with blade, until the dart finally clicks into place. Immediately, he lines up the shot, firing the dart and watching it sink solidly into Pendleton’s stomach. The nobleman makes a sound of anger, gaze flying down to the dart stuck in the fine cloth of his waistcoat, before he slashes out at Corvo again. Corvo blocks smoothly, watching and waiting, and the toxin kicks in, sending Pendleton into collapse, a weak snarl still on his face.

                Corvo sighs deeply, putting away his weapons and kicking Pendleton’s sword under a couch. He flicks away the dart and picks up the nobleman himself, slinging him over his shoulder as he had carried his brother. From there, it is easy to retrace his steps, back to the guest bedroom, out onto the balcony, with a short blink up to the roof. He crosses the rooftops and returns to Samuel in the canal, crouching at the base of the staircase. He sets down the unconscious man next to his twin, easing into the boat himself. The craft sits much lower in the water under double the weight, but it seems as sturdy as it had been before, rocking gently on the waters of the canal.

                Samuel looks down at the Pendletons, snoring gently in their positions curled in the boat, and he says, “So that’s that, then,” sounding somewhat amazed.

                Corvo nods, glad to be finally off of his feet. His adrenaline is beginning to fade, and his shoulder faintly aches from carrying the two men over the roofs. “Let’s go,” he says, and the tiredness is plain in his voice.

                Samuel takes them down the waterway, heading back toward Drapers Ward. Their unconscious cargo remains asleep in the bottom of the boat, carried away from the manor with none of the guards the wiser.

\-----

                This time, when they travel up the canals to the shipping inlet where the Undine is anchored, there are no sounds of violence ringing through the air. Samuel looks hesitant anyway, slowing the motor and glancing over his shoulder at Corvo. “Should I just wait for you here?” he asks, still a good distance away from the Undine and the Dead Eels.

                The ache in Corvo’s shoulder has gone from faint to insistent, and he balks at the idea of carrying the twins any further than he has to. So he shakes his head, saying, “Let’s get right up to the shipping dock.”

                Still looking uneasy, Samuel acquiesces, steering the boat around what looks like a submerged cabinet and moving steadily forward.

                As they pull up beside the Undine, Corvo can hear Lizzy’s voice ring out over the water. “What’s it going to be, Baker? I can still throw you to the hagfish. Might toss your brother in too, just for fun.”

                Samuel’s expression has progressed from concern to deep alarm by the time Corvo rises out of the boat, jumping onto the concrete with a solid thump from his boots. Corvo leaves him be with a wry smile hidden behind his mask, walking around the Undine and listening to the continuing conversation on deck.

                A distressed male voice curses lowly, followed shortly by, “Fuck, fuck, do it, do it!” and the sound of metal striking wood. The man bellows, and Corvo climbs across the gangplank onto the deck to see him clutching at his hand, blood streaming down his arm in great rivers.

                Lizzy, with a bloody machete in one hand, stands in front of a barrel, what looks horribly like a severed human finger lying amid a pool of blood on the top. She jerks her head at a man standing behind her, and she says, “Go cauterize him. Stop him bleeding on my deck.” As the man moves to obey, she catches sight of Corvo, and she grins, sharp teeth flashing. She stabs the machete point first into the barrel, making the severed finger bounce at the impact. “Back in a moment boys,” she drawls, roughly pushing past the still bleeding man, making him stumble and curse.

                “So,” she says, coming to a stop just before Corvo and clapping her hands together. “Let’s go see them, shall we?”

                Corvo leads the way back to the boat, Samuel still sitting stiffly at one end. One of the Pendletons has slumped down further in his unconsciousness, his neck at an odd angle. Lizzy nudges him with one bare toe, making his head loll back even further. “You drug them?” she asks.

                “Just one,” he says, meeting Samuel’s eyes for confirmation. “Choked out the other.”

                Lizzy follows the line of Corvo’s sight, and Samuel shrinks before her scrutiny. “Who the fuck are you?” she demands.

                “Just the boatman, miss,” he says, clinging tight to the steering mechanism.

                She laughs raucously, tossing her head back. “Haven’t been a fucking ‘miss’ in ten years,” she says, baring her teeth in a smirk. She turns her attention back to the Pendletons, still snoring obliviously in the boat. Without looking up, she shouts, “Pigface! Maggot! Get your asses down here!”

                As the sound of footsteps announces the approach of two Dead Eels, Corvo privately wonders whether they had gotten their colorful names before or after joining the gang. One of the newcomers is the man Lizzy has called forward twice now, probably ‘Maggot’ if Corvo’s memory serves. He eyes Corvo and Samuel a little suspiciously, but says nothing, turning instead to face Lizzy, Pigface doing the same somewhere over his shoulder.

                Lizzy grins, and prods one of the Pendletons again with her foot. “Bring these gentlemen to their lodgings. Make sure they’re all nice and cozy, alright?”

                Maggot swings one of the twins up over his shoulder with impressive strength, waiting momentarily for his companion before leading the way toward the little storage room at the edge of the dock. Corvo watches them go, and a knot of tension eases in his chest. It’s done, and there’s no unnecessary blood on his hands. It’s done.

                Lizzy is watching the side of his mask, her own expression calculating. “This isn’t the last I’m going to hear from you, is it?” she asks, startling him out of his thoughts. As his silence continues to stretch, she scoffs, tossing her hair out of her face with a jerk of her head. “With that stunt you just pulled? You’ve got something big planned, and it’s gonna shake things up around here, I know it.

                Samuel’s eyes have gone perfectly round and he jerks into rigidity in the boat, his fingers pressed white-knuckled beneath his gloves. Lizzy glances at him, then back to Corvo where he still stands in silence, and she throws up her hands, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Fine,” she says, “don’t tell me. If I’m right, I’ll know soon enough anyway.” She looks into the eyes of Corvo’s mask steadily, growing suddenly serious. “This means we’re square, alright? Nobody owes anybody a thing.”

                Corvo nods solemnly. He looks around Lizzy’s shoulder toward the tiny building where the Pendletons are being carelessly unloaded, Maggot and Pigface shifting out a few boxes and pulling the plague barrier closer. “I don’t know when I’ll be back for them,” he says slowly, gesturing toward the commotion with a lazy hand. “If you’ll need extra compensation for the time-”

                “Don’t worry about it,” she interrupts. “You did me a huge Void-damned favor, and I’m just paying you back.” She takes an insistent step forward, offering a hand to shake. “We’re _even_ now, deal?”

                After a pause, he nods firmly, taking her hand and pumping up and down once. “Deal,” he replies.

                “Great!” She steps back, and folds her hands into her armpits, cocking out a hip. “Now get out of here. I’ve got a gang full of idiots to run, and Logan’ll probably try to worm his way out of that finger he owes me.”

                He wonders for a moment if ‘good luck’ is the right response. He decides instead on, “Have fun,” the smile clear in his voice.

                Lizzy laughs long and loud. “Knew there was a reason I didn’t kill you,” she mutters, already turning and stalking off back toward the Undine.

                Somewhere behind him, Samuel lets out a long slow breath. When he turns to look, the boatman has relaxed marginally, though his shoulders still sit a little high. “Let’s go,” he says.

                Agreeably, Corvo settles into his place at the back of the boat. As Samuel pulls away from the dock out toward the river, Corvo pulls open the hatch below his feet. Now that he no longer has to try and move quietly, he can put the glass bottles back into his bag. The curled Sokolov painting is much more difficult to deal with, and he spends a few moments rearranging an elixir here, a bone rune there, trying to get it into his bag without folding it.

                Once they’re back out in the open water of the Wrenhaven, Samuel quietly murmurs, “I think you did the right thing, Corvo.”

                When Corvo looks up from his reorganizing, Samuel glances back at him, expression serious. “Not killing them Pendleton boys, I mean.”

                Corvo remains silent. What could he possibly say in response to this? Slowly, he goes back to trying to fit the painting into his bag, eyes cast downward toward the glint of glass and bone.

                Samuel lets the silence spread between them, only the gentle hum of the motor disturbing air and water. The sun has nearly reached the apex of its movement through the sky, shining down onto their heads in a welcome respite from the biting cold. Corvo gives up the painting as a bad job, putting it back into the hatch below his feet. He’ll just have to carry it with him, he decides, slipping his hands into his coat pockets.

                He is impeded by wadded fabric. Curious, he pulls it out into the open, and his gloves uncurl in his bare fingers.

                Immediately he tenses, whirling around to stare at the back of Samuel’s head. All this time, he’s left the Outsider’s Mark in plain sight? But Samuel hadn’t said anything- maybe he hadn’t noticed?

                Worried, Corvo pulls his gloves back on, letting his fingers curl into fists. It’s too late now, he thinks. He’ll just have to hope that the boatman hadn’t seen the Mark, or, if he had, that he won’t say anything to the Loyalists.

                The uneasy silence follows them all the way down the river.

\-----

                By the time the Hound Pits Pub comes into view in the distance, Corvo has forced himself to relax. Samuel still hasn’t said a word one way or the other in regards to the Mark, and Corvo has to admit to himself that worrying about it will do nothing.

                When the boat pulls up to the bank, he adjusts his grip on his bag and the curled painting, stepping onto the shore. Samuel steps up beside him, already reaching into his coat for a pack of cigarettes. “Admiral Havelock’ll likely want to speak to you,” he murmurs, shielding his lighter against the wind. “He should be somewhere inside.”

                Corvo nods. He crosses through the metal archway, leaving the boatman behind. Might as well get that conversation over and done with; he’s not sure how the Loyalists will react to his decision to spare the Pendleton twins.

                He pushes open the door to the pub, squinting in the sudden darkness. Lydia stands behind the bar, facing the stove with several containers of food spread all around her. “Oh, Corvo!” she exclaims upon recognizing him, a wooden spoon clutched in her hand. “Back just in time for lunch.”

                “Where’s Havelock?” Corvo asks. His breath reflects back against his face, and he remembers that he’s still wearing the mask. He reaches up to detach it, surprised at how relieved he feels without its oppressive heat against his skin. He runs his fingers through his hair, displeased to find it clumped with sweat.

                “He should be upstairs with the others,” Lydia replies, watching him with a strange look in her eyes. “They’ll be waiting for you, I expect.”

                He murmurs his thanks, moving toward the staircase. He slows as he approaches Havelock’s room at the end of the hall, trying to formulate what he wants to say. He still hasn’t quite gotten his thoughts in order when he pushes open the metal door and steps inside.

                Havelock looks up abruptly at his approach, something in the set of his shoulders and eyebrows defensive. “Ah,” he says, quickly snapping shut a book and sliding it to the edge of his desk, “Just the man I wanted to see.”

                Corvo glances at the book suspiciously, but says nothing. Havelock presses on, “So, I take it the job is done, and the Pendletons lie dead?”

                Delicately, Corvo responds, “Not quite.”

                “What do you mean?” a voice cuts across. Martin leans against a wall just around the corner, where Corvo couldn’t have seen him from the doorway. He still holds Campbell’s black book open in front of his eyes, not even looking in Corvo’s direction as he adds, “Seems a simple enough distinction to me.”

                “They’re not dead,” Corvo says, fighting to keep his voice flat and level. “I didn’t kill them.”

                “What?” Havelock exclaims, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. “Then why are you back?”

                “They’re not dead,” Corvo repeats slowly, “but they are taken care of. They won’t be getting in the way.”

                “Explain,” Martin commands, snapping the black book shut. “What happened?”

                Feeling mildly irritated that Martin seems to believe himself in a position of power, Corvo replies, “I’ve made outside arrangements. They’ll be kept out of the public eye for as long as we need.” His choice of words is calculated; he knows he’s not the best actor, and that his distrust shows through plainly. But the last thing he needs is more enemies, especially when he has Emily to consider. Best to present his thoughts as if he believes himself part of their little group, with the same interests and goals. “They won’t get in our way.”

                Martin stares him down for a long moment. He probably knows exactly what Corvo is attempting to do. But he seems to decide it’s worth going along with the admittedly weak charade, for he nods, saying, “Good. Pendleton’ll be happy to hear that.”

                Havelock nods, taking his cue from the Overseer. “In that case, you’re free to go for the rest of the afternoon. We’ll find you if we make any progress on the black book.”

                Corvo nods. With one last glance between Havelock and Martin, he sweeps from the room, heading back toward the river. He wants to get back to Emily as soon as he can.

                Lydia is still preparing food at the bar, and she gives a little wave as he passes. As he approaches Piero’s workshop, though, he remembers all of the extraneous items in his bag, and he wonders briefly if the Natural Philosopher would have any use for them. He pauses in the wide open doorway, looking around for any sign of the bespectacled man. He’s upstairs, bent over an audiograph machine, and Corvo stops to listen.

                “Does part of the soul live in the heart?” Piero is asking. He sighs deeply, and Corvo can just barely see him scrub a hand over his face up through the metal supports of the loft. “If the heart keeps beating,” Piero continues, “does that mean the spirit is never released to oblivion? I can keep a heart beating forever with electricity, but what does that mean for any essence trapped within? It would be easier if I had created these processes in waking hours - I am uneasy pursuing avenues that emanate from my dreaming mind.”

                Corvo feels himself go stock still. His thoughts jump to the clockwork heart tucked away in his bag, hidden amid pieces of magic whalebone. It- it has to be a coincidence, right? The heart was a gift from the Outsider, and that was long before he had ever come to the Loyalists. But… Piero had spoken of dreams, and the first time Corvo had ever met the god had been in the depths of sleep. Could it-

                “Corvo!” Piero exclaims, climbing down the stairs with a smile on his face. “I assume your ventures have gone well?”

                Shaking himself from his thoughts, Corvo nods. He takes a few steps forward and sets down his mask and the painting on a worktable, pulling his bag into easier reach. “You mentioned needing materials, this morning,” he says as he reaches into the depths. “I was wondering if you would have any use for these?”

                Piero’s eyes widen as Corvo pulls out bottle after bottle, setting out phials of glimmering powder and thick green liquid beside large spools of copper wiring. He has to shift the painting out of the way to get everything onto the table, and it uncurls a little at his touch. Piero’s gaze snaps toward the revealed image, and he murmurs to himself “Is that a Sokolov?”

                Smiling a little sheepishly, Corvo says, “Yes, it is. I know they’re rather distinctive, but I thought I’d sell it when all of this was over.”

                “Forget about later,” Piero says, unrolling the canvas with gentle hands. “I could sell this for a great deal right now.”

                “You want it?” Corvo asks. It’s not like he’ll have the chance to sell it himself. “I’ve got another I could get to you tomorrow, if you’d like.”

                “That would be excellent. I could make quite a deal of progress toward the adjusted sleep toxin formula with these funds alone.” Piero re-rolls the canvas, instead picking up the glass bottles and holding them to the light.

                “Adjusted formula?” Corvo asks, thinking of how useful the sleep darts had already proved.

                “Yes,” Piero murmurs, shaking a bottle of powdered crystal and listening to the noise. “The current iteration is much too slow to be of much use any combat situation. I’d need higher doses of hemlock in each dart.” He picks up a bottle of the green liquid, cocking one eyebrow higher. “Which you seem to have delivered right into my lap.”

                He looks up finally, meeting Corvo’s eyes. “If you come across any other materials such as these, do not hesitate to bring them to my attention. They will surely allow me to make tools and munitions you will find useful in the future.”

                Corvo nods his thanks, putting his mask away in his bag and buckling it solidly shut. “Is Emily upstairs?” he asks, gesturing toward Callista’s tower.

                When Piero replies in the affirmative, still caught up in his investigation of the bottles of ingredients, Corvo moves on, climbing up the stairs. He passes the audiograph on the table, and his thoughts flick again to the Outsider. Does Piero have some sort of connection to the black-eyed god, too? Does he even know his ideas aren’t his own?

                He pushes the thoughts aside and knocks on the door to the tower, interrupting a quiet discussion within. After a pause, Callista pulls the door open, an inquisitive tilt to her eyebrows. Before she can say a word, Emily is exclaiming, “Corvo!” leaping to her feet and rushing out the door to meet him. She hugs him tight around the middle, pressing her face into the front of his jacket. “You’re back!”

                Corvo kneels and hugs her back, a smile on his face. “I am,” he says. “How were things while I was gone?”

                Emily glances up over her shoulder at Callista in the doorway before speaking. “It was alright,” she says, “though Piero was kind of loud in his workshop. A while ago, something exploded!”

                Corvo looks up at Callista in alarm, but she only smiles somewhat tiredly. “A common occurrence, I’m afraid,” she says. “I assure you Emily was never in any kind of danger.”

                He thinks for a moment, recalling the way that Piero’s workshop hadn’t seemed any worse for wear when he had seen it only moments before.  Though he doesn’t like the idea of explosions anywhere near Emily, he has to admit that Piero at least seems able to handle them. He’ll put it out of his mind for now.

                “Well,” Callista says with a sigh, “we were about to break for lunch anyway. Would you like to join us, Corvo?”

                He nods, straightening up and taking Emily’s hand. She smiles up at him interlacing their fingers. She leads the way down the metal walkway, positively speeding through Piero’s workshop without even the barest hello to the Natural Philosopher as she passes. She doesn’t seem to like him much, and Corvo can’t really blame her, not when their first interaction was all about weaponry and the skull mask.

                Emily pushes open the door to the Hound Pits, pulling Corvo inside. Lydia looks up at the commotion, several plates piled with food spread out on the counter before her. She inclines her head with a smile, saying, “Hello Corvo, Callista, your Ladyship.”

                Emily finally detaches herself from Corvo’s hand at the counter, pressing her hands to the wood and peering at the steaming plates, up on her toes for height. Lydia seems to have made an impressive variety for a woman working under plague conditions, grilled hagfish over a bed of rice, small bowls of soup and vegetables, and what looks like actual potatoes topped with butter and chives. Corvo’s mouth waters at the sight, remembering his half-starved six months in Coldridge.

                Lydia smiles at him, gesturing toward the plates with her spoon. “Help yourselves. I’ve made enough for everyone.”

                Corvo takes one of everything, passing the same down to Emily when he discovers she can’t quite reach the soups. She leads the way into a booth along the side wall, folding her feet up beneath her on the bench and reaching eagerly for a fork. Callista smiles and walks by, sitting a few booths down and giving them space to talk.

                “What did you do today?” Corvo asks, mashing his butter down into his potato with no small amount of relish.

                Emily makes a face. In a low voice she says, “Nothing exciting. Callista was just talking about history all day. Like I’ll need to know the names of every stuffy old man who ever found another island.”

                “ _Emily_ ,” Corvo admonishes, though he cannot keep the smile out of his voice. “You’ll be Empress, and it’s important to know where-”

                “Where I came from, I know,” she finishes, spearing a head of broccoli rather viciously. “But never mind that, Corvo. What did _you_ do? Where did you go?”

                Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Lydia tensing a little at the bar, no doubt thinking the topic of conversation unfit for young Empresses. But Corvo has experience twisting events to pull away the violence, and it is easy to do so now. “Well,” he says, slowly, like he has to think about it. “I met a pirate.”

                Emily’s eyes go wide, and her fork with the broccoli droops before it gets anywhere near her mouth. “You did?” she exclaims. “What was he like?”

                “ _She_ ,” he says, grinning as her eyes go even wider. He leans in close, conspiratory tone in his voice. “She was the leader of a whole gang, with about twenty or thirty subordinates.”

                Emily’s expression is rapt, and she demands, “Tell me more!” mechanically moving fork from her plate to her mouth.

                So Corvo does, telling her all about Lizzy Stride and the Dead Eels between mouthfuls of the most delicious food he has had in nearly half a year. He curls his fingers in front of his mouth to signify Lizzy’s teeth, earning a startled little laugh. When he talks about how he had knocked out the men trying to capture Lizzy, she asks to see his crossbow and his last sleep dart, staring at them with eyes shining with excitement.

                As he goes to put the crossbow back into his bag, he sees the cups and cutlery he had taken from Pendleton Manor. He should probably go and put them away in their hideaway, to free up more space in his bag. He finishes the last few bites of hagfish and rice with some regret, wishing for more even as his stomach protests from being full for the first time in months.

                He stands just as Emily is finishing her soup, stretching and frowning a little at the pain in his shoulder. He hasn’t had problems with it before, but then again, he hadn’t carried two full-grown men across Dunwall’s rooftops before. Hopefully, it’ll fade before tomorrow.

                “I’m going to go drop some things off,” he says, patting his bag. “I’ll be right back.”

                Emily scrambles to her feet, saying, “I’ll go with you!”

                Corvo glances over his shoulder at Callista, expression apologetic, but she only smiles and waves them on with her fork. “Go on,” she says. “Just hurry right back.”

                Emily leads the way out of the pub’s front door, looking down the road with the first hint of hesitance, clearly wary of being seen. Corvo takes her hand in his, smiling down at her when she looks up questioningly. “Let’s go,” he says, glad to see her smile again.

                They weave through streets and side roads, passing abandoned tramcar rails and empty dumpsters. When they duck into the first alley, Corvo looks over his shoulder and casts Dark Vision, smiling wryly to himself on how much he has already come to rely on the power to aid him. Emily still says nothing about the whispers, and Corvo again wonders if she can even hear them, or, like the light of his blink, they are only there for him alone.

                They have to take a brief detour when Corvo spies a swarm of rats at the end of the street, but Emily doesn’t object when Corvo takes her into his arms and blinks up to a low roof. She seems mildly alarmed when she realizes how far above the street they are, but she just clings to his neck tighter, her head on a swivel to watch the passing scenery below them.

                Then they’re back in their temporary home, and Corvo lets her down to stand on her own again. He takes the bag from his shoulders, pulling out the loaf of bread and the jar of fig jelly. Emily’s eyes light up at the sight of the latter, and he smiles, saying, “I thought you’d like that.”

                He puts the food away on a high shelf, putting the cups and cutlery in the cabinet right over the stove. His bag still feels heavier than he would like, and he pulls it open to reveal the absolute mess of bone charms and runes. He should sort through them now, since he has the time and space.

                Emily has turned to the bookshelf while he’s been putting the food away, evidently bored of just sitting and watching. He tells her, “I’ll be right back,” moving down the hallway toward the bedroom he had claimed as his own.

                Nudging the door partway shut behind him, he upends his bag across the bedspread. His key ring rattles among the vials of elixir and remedy, high pitched and metallic among the dull clicks of the bones. Corvo draws his sword and pulls back his sleeve, displeased to see the other cuts across his arm are still angry and red. He’s going to do quite a number on himself if he doesn’t find a better way to get to his blood.

                His skin splits cleanly beneath his blade, and the runes positively sing at the touch of his blood. He closes his eyes and lets knowledge wash forth. He’s ready for the whispers of blood in his teeth and enemies pulled to shadows, for the urgings for faster healing or greater swiftness and agility. But, probably from the sheer number of runes before him, new magics curl tantalizingly around him, promising the ability to shatter doors and scatter his enemies with naught but a gesture of his hand, to call forth swarms of plague rats whenever and wherever he might wish, or of ensnaring human minds in his possessions just as surely as he can control rats and fish and hounds.

                This last seems the most promising, and he sends his answer back to the magic, letting it swirl and coalesce before his eyes. All five of his runes are consumed in one swift surge, and he finds himself gasping, hunching forward involuntarily as magic flares bright and hot through his veins. All at once, the whispers leave, and the whalebone runes are gone as if they had never been, leaving circular gaps in the spread across his bed.

                Still breathing rather heavily, he wets his fingers again and turns to the charms, waiting for the heart to speak into his mind. To his surprise, one of the charms vanishes entirely, spiraling into dark miasma and speeding toward one of the charms he had already abandoned atop the dresser. The heart whispers, ‘ _The first enhances a charm you already possess- if you wore it, the speed of your sword would be swifter, faster than any that could hope to oppose you. The next protects you if you should slip beneath the waves; you will find yourself impervious to the touch of the water, as at home below as you would be above the surface. The last will bring your Void-touched nature into the sight of those around you- your enemies would look upon you and the magic trapped within your skin, and they would despair._ ’

                Breathing out slowly, Corvo looks down at the charms. The final charm sounds like it would have the last possible effect he would want, if he wants any chance of hiding his magic from the others. The first he ignores just as he had its predecessor- he’d rather avoid combat entirely, if at all possible, and anyway, he’s not sure whether the increased speed would alter his skill at swordplay. It’s certainly not a risk he’s willing to take.

                The second, though, catches his interest. In most circumstances, he’d like to believe that he could stay out of the water entirely, and therefore avoid the consequences. As the last few days have shown him, however, it seems inevitable that he’ll have to go back into the Wrenhaven or its canals, if nothing else then for retrieving more runes and charms. If this charm would protect him from the clinging damp and cold, then it would be more than worth the negligible drain on his magic.

                Corvo goes to take one of the other charms from his belt, and pauses. He had just used an incredible number of runes- perhaps he could sustain another charm now? Experimentally, he slips the newest charm in beside the others, waiting for any tell-tale headache at the base of his skull. There is none, and he decides he should be fine.

                He begins to sweep the elixir and keys back into his bag, deciding to leave the two rejected charms behind with the others. His arm twinges when he twists to slide a vial to one side of his bag, and he scowls, holding it up before his face and studying the still-oozing wound. At this rate, he might have to take an extra dose of Sokolov’s Elixir, and he’d been hoping to conserve it.

                “Does it hurt?”

                He whirls, automatically reaching for the gun strapped to his chest, all thoughts of pain gone. But it’s only Emily in the doorway, her face drawn and serious.

                “Emily,” he sighs, pointedly tugging his sleeve down and hiding his wince as it drags over his skin. “You startled me.”

                “Does it hurt?” she repeats, pointing at his arm. She creeps forward out of the hallway, stepping into the light of the little oil-burning lamp on Corvo’s side table.

                He sighs again, patting the bed at his side. As Emily sits, all folded legs and frowns, he says, “Not much. But yes, it does.”

                “Then why do you do it?” she bursts, all in a rush, like she’s afraid she’ll lose her nerve. “Why do it at all if it hurts you?”

                He considers his words carefully, aware of her eyes on his face. “Because,” he says, “because it helps. It makes me stronger.” He shifts a little in place, meeting her gaze steadily. “Because without magic, I might not have gotten out of prison in time, and I might not have been able to save you.”

                He tilts her head upward gently with one hand, not letting her look away. “I would do _anything_ to keep you safe, Emily.”

                Her frown deepens, and she turns her head away, expression thoughtful. Knowing that he has to give her the time and space to think, he stands, offering her his hand to help her off of the bed. She takes it absent mindedly, her bare fingers interweaving with his gloved ones, and she bites her lip.

                “Let’s go back to the Hound Pits,” he suggests gently. “Callista will be waiting for you.”

                “Alright,” she says, eyes still cast toward the floorboards.

                Corvo leads the way back through the streets, magic in his eyes and a feeling startlingly close to guilt settling deep inside his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleh. Finals are done! Aaand I go back for next semester in a few days. Isn't college -great?-
> 
> In that same note, the final thousand words or so are unbeta-ed. I'll edit in any changes when I post the next chapter, though I don't anticipate any groundbreaking alterations.
> 
> Happy 100 pages, everybody. This thing has gotten so out of hand, and I'm not even to Sokolov yet. Oh well, I guess.
> 
> I don't know if this will show up in people's emails- I'm just editing out my note from last week. So, sorry if you miss this chapter!
> 
> Thanks for your patience and support, guys. Keeps me going. c:


	9. Chapter 9

                The next few days pass excruciatingly slowly. Martin _had_ managed to crack the code in the black book (“Overseer. His keyword is _overseer_. It’s almost insulting.”), but the actual translation into something readable is slow, tedious work. Martin had explained the process to Havelock once while Corvo was in earshot, but it had sounded so esoteric and convoluted that he had quickly lost interest.

                This restless waiting with nothing to do leaves Corvo feeling anxious and impotent, especially when compared against the first few excitement filled days right out of Coldridge. He finds himself pacing more often than he would like to admit, eyes cast across the river to Dunwall Tower. More than once, he has to talk himself out of just going and trying for Burrows _now_ , before he drives himself mad with waiting.

                But of course, even as he speculatively eyes the hagfish circling just offshore, he knows that he was powerless just yet. Getting into Dunwall Tower would be one thing – trying to leave, Burrows’ blood still bright and fresh on his blade, would be another thing entirely.

                Once, Havelock had joined Corvo on the riverbank. The admiral had stood in silence for a time, his eyes, too, fixed on the marble tower across the Wrenhaven. Corvo had left him to it, still pacing the ever familiar track through the dirt and trash. All at once, Havelock had said, “It takes time, of course, dismantling a corrupt regime. A government’s not something that can be replaced overnight.”

                Corvo had said nothing, thinking bitterly of how quickly the government had unraveled after Jessamine’s death. But Havelock’s voice had been tinged with frustration, no matter his words, so maybe he had been thinking of that, too.

                The only other significant event is when a man had pulls Corvo aside as he walks back from Callista’s tower. He introduces himself as Wallace Higgins, one of the head servants for Pendleton Estate. Corvo recognizes him faintly from that flurry of introductions the first day he and Emily had come to the Hound Pits, but this is the first time he has ever heard him speak.

                “His Lordship had wished to speak to you in person, of course,” Wallace says, clinging to the lapels of his jacket. “But he must manage family affairs, in light of his brothers’ … absence.” Smoothly, he reaches into an inner coat pocket, withdrawing a pristine white letter and a cloth pouch clinking with coins. At Corvo’s questioning glance, all he says was, “His Lordship sends his thanks.”

                Curious, Corvo goes immediately into the Hound Pits Pub, nodding a greeting to Lydia, and sitting in the corner booth to read. The message had been penned on fine letterhead, a now-familiar Pendleton P watermarked in one corner.

_Corvo,_

_This matter with my brothers has not been pleasant at all so I don’t wish to discuss it further. However, I really must thank you. I’ve heard that you found some other means of neutralizing them, without taking their lives. Ingenious. Wherever they are, even if they are miserable, they are alive at least. So perhaps someday I will see them again._

_\- Lord Treavor Pendleton_

                Corvo stares at the paper for a long time. Slowly he folds it back up and tucks it inside his coat, looking instead to the cloth bag. His eyes widen when he sees the sheer number of coins of ten inside, glinting innocently in the low light of the pub. Does- does Lord Pendleton think he expects some kind of _compensation_ because he didn’t kill the twins?

                Now feeling mildly insulted, Corvo pulls the bag shut and rises to his feet. He’ll give the money to Piero, he decides. At least the natural philosopher might find some use for it.

                He finds Piero perched on a high stool taken from the bar, face contorted in concentration as he pours one vial of liquid into another. Corvo waits until he sets both down to wipe his brow before making himself known. He’s never seen or heard an explosion for himself, but the thought still has him wary.

                “Oh, what is this, then?” Piero asks when Corvo drops the bag of coins onto the table. He plucks a coin from the bag, studying it with a smile. “Perfect, just perfect. I can double my order of kingsparrow feathers with this.” He glances at Corvo out of the corner of his eye and conspicuously clears his throat. “That is not to say, ah, that your efforts have not been appreciated-”

                “It’s fine,” Corvo interrupts. He has spent much of the past few days scouring the area around the pub for any materials worth scavenging. While the bounty in unrefined Tyvian ore and copper wiring has been substantial, the few feathers he has managed to find had been rather bedraggled from their time on the rooftops.

                He has also taken the time to surreptitiously search for magical artifacts with the aid of the heart. While a rune on the shoreline had been easy to recover, all other points of resonance have remained stubbornly barred from him. One is in a building across the street from the bar, but the windows are all boarded up and the only door is locked. Another point is more mysterious, directly below the ground behind Piero’s workshop, presumably in some sort of sewer system. He’s sure if he looks hard enough, he might find a way inside, at least in the skin or scales of a rat or hagfish, but he worries about finding his way back out again. So, with regret, he has left the magic in their place, promising himself that he will come back for them later.

                “But enough of that,” Piero says, slipping the cloth bag into an inner pocket. “You have arrived at an opportune time, Corvo. I have finished a stable formulation for the new sleep toxin. If I could see your crossbow for a few moments, I can make the final few adjustments.”

                Corvo obediently reaches into his bag, withdrawing the crossbow and offering it grip first. Piero takes it without even a nod, already focused on dismantling the final sleep dart Corvo had left loaded into the weapon.

                This leaves Corvo to stand over his shoulder, boredly shifting from foot to foot. He rapidly loses interest in watching Piero work, so he instead moves to wander the workshop. As time has passed, Corvo has read nearly all of the books on the property, and Piero’s are no exception. But he doesn’t particularly want to read about whale vivisection, or whale oil processing, or really any of Piero’s books, he realizes. He idly brushes the cover of a book entailing dead counter responsibilities, and he muses that the natural philosopher seems far too focused on the grim and negative side of the city.

                The audiograph machine, Corvo notes, is conspicuously absent.

                He is walking back down the stairs, resigning himself to a few more minutes of restless stillness as he waits for Piero to finish his work, when a redheaded woman comes quickly into the workshop, looking pale and distressed. She startles a little upon noticing Corvo on the stairs, and she pulls her hat down further on her head, shielding her eyes. “Excuse me, Mr. Corvo. I was just looking for Admiral Havelock.”

                Corvo vaguely recognizes her face as another of the servants at the pub, though he has never quite heard her name. He’s gotten the impression that she seems rather uncomfortable with him, and he can’t find it in himself to blame her.

                “What’s wrong?” Corvo asks, keen for _something_ to break the monotony. “Maybe I can help.”

                She hesitates, looking visibly torn. Seeming to making up her mind, all at once, she bursts, “I think there’s a weeper in the sewer.”

                Even Piero looks up from his work, brow raised in surprise. “Are you quite sure?” he asks.

                She nods, chewing her lip. “I definitely heard something down in the basements. I was afraid it was the Watch, at first, but…” She trails off. “I was going to ask Havelock if he would mind looking into it.”

                “I could do it,” Corvo says. Whether the noise _is_ a weeper or a watchman or something else entirely, it’ll give him something to do, at least.

                “Would you?” she asks, sounding hopeful. “I’m sorry for the trouble, but I just thought that I should mention it to someone, in case it did turn out to be important.”

                Corvo lets himself smile, trying to put her at ease. “It’s no trouble at all.”

                “Well,” Piero says, setting down his screwdriver, brushing a bit of tiny dust off of the crossbow, “I suppose you will be needing this.” He pauses, watching as Corvo tests the tension of the string. “If you do come across weepers in the tunnels, I would be quite grateful if you could procure a live one for me. My remaining contacts at the Academy have long been searching for living plague specimens to further their research.”

                Corvo nods, accepting the pouch of modified sleep darts and clipping it onto his belt. He turns to the woman, gesturing for her to lead the way. She walks them into the pub, taking a right turn and coming to a long chain below the stairs. She points down into a hole in the floor, saying, “There’s a door down there that can take you into the sewers. It should be locked, but I’ve got a key.”

                He accepts the key absently, peering down into the hole and the darkness beyond. The stone down there certainly looks damp and dirty enough to be part of the sewer. With one last nod to the woman, he grips the chain and climbs down.

                The room looks like it houses the boilers and generators for keeping the Hound Pits and the surrounding buildings running, though it seems no one has been down here in quite some time. Corvo notes a bottle of processed whale oil lying on its side between the generators, and he decides to come back for it later.

                The door unlocks easily, opening into a damp catacomb filled with water about shin-deep. Corvo grimaces and closes the door behind him, readying the sleep darts. Just faintly over the sound of slowly-moving water, he can hear a groaning coming down a tunnel to his right. It seems the servant’s initial guess had been right, and a weeper has taken up residence here. Uselessly glancing over his shoulder, as if anyone would have followed him down this far, he pulls magic into his fist and aims a blink at a patch of stone some distance down the tunnel. He’s had enough of walking through the canals to last a lifetime.

                Corvo spots movement at the end of the tunnel, and he drops into a crouch, lining up a shot. A woman is stooped on the ground in front of a low cabinet, digging through piles of empty food canisters and old newspapers. The blood is visible on her face even from this distance. Corvo takes aim and fires, watching as she collapses almost immediately into a boneless sprawl. He rises from his defensive crouch, looking down at his crossbow appreciatively. Piero certainly knows his craft well, he thinks.

                He takes a few steps toward the woman when something comes barreling into his side, nearly overbalancing him and almost knocking him into the canal. He turns, struggling to stay upright, to see a second weeper, hands clutched tightly in the fabric of Corvo’s jacket. He shoves the weeper backward, already scrambling to load a second sleep dart into the crossbow. As the weeper stumbles, mouth sagging open, Corvo gets the dart into place and fires, watching it sink into layers of shirts down to the skin beneath.

                When the second weeper falls, Corvo casts Dark Vision, making certain that _this_ time, there are no more surprises around the corners. When he sees no living creatures beyond the unconscious weepers on the stone floor, he turns his attention instead to the low cabinet and the item glowing green inside. As he approaches, he recognizes it as a rune, and the song begins to build in his ears. He spots a second rune tangled in a patch of reeds, and he smiles at the turn of good fortune. He takes the rune from the cabinet first, and he catches sight of an old and crumbling piece of paper. It’s a handwritten note, the words gone slanted and jagged with the apparent speed of the author’s writing.

_I’m sorry, but I won’t be here for the next meeting. Or ever again for that matter. What happened here was unnatural and makes me sick to recall. I left the result of our labors for you to keep, but I expect that the rats will consume it before you return. Goodbye._

                The note looks old enough to assuage any worry that might have formed from the thought of secret meetings being conducted beneath the pub with no one the wiser. And the presence of the runes seems to indicate that whomever this letter had been addressed to had never returned to this spot, either. Corvo tucks the rune away, turning instead to the other still caught among the river weed. Unfortunately, it’s a little too far to reach from dry land. The rune is too valuable to ignore, and besides, this will give him the chance to test out the newest bone charm in place on his belt.

                With a grimace, he testingly dips his hand into the water, withdrawing it quickly before the chill can settle into his skin. When he looks at his fingers and his sleeve, no hint of moisture remains. It is as the heart had promised- he is now impervious to the water.

                That doesn’t make it any easier for him to slip into the canal, face screwed up against the cold, until he is settled with one hand on the cabinet. He has to duck beneath the surface briefly to retrieve the rune, and he returns to the air, instinctually letting out a gasping breath. He puts the rune beside the cabinet and pulls himself back onto dry land, water pouring in streams all around him. And it keeps pouring, from his shoulders and knees, from the crown of his head, until he is crouched in a puddle at the water’s edge, hair and clothes and skin as dry as if he had never even touched the surface. His bag isn’t even wet, he discovers, as he puts this rune away as well and climbs back up to his feet. This bone charm will likely become one of his favorites, he thinks, sweeping dry hair out of his face.

                Corvo lines up the unconscious weepers against the wall before returning the way he came, walking into the boiler room and closing the door firmly behind him. He climbs up the chain again with little effort, only to come face to face with the servant girl in the hat. He finishes climbing, stepping down onto the concrete. “They _were_ weepers,” he says, rising back up to his full height and brushing off his shoulders. “But they’re unconscious now.”

                Her eyes go round. “You handled them that quickly? You might just be the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

                “Thank you.” He smiles. “I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

                “Oh!” she exclaims, fidgeting again. “It’s Cecelia, Mr. Corvo. You don’t need to worry about me.”

                “Just Corvo is fine,” he replies, making a note to pay closer attention to the nervous woman in the future.

                At that moment, Havelock climbs down the stairs, followed closely by Martin. “There you are,” he says, expression serious. “I’ve been looking for you.”

                Corvo notes Cecelia slipping away out of the corner of his eye, and he lets her go, filing the information away for later. “What do you need?” he asks Havelock, straightening the strap of his bag.

                “We’ve planned our next move.” With a gesture over his shoulder, he says, “Martin found a footnote in Campbell’s journal referencing Sokolov painting the Lord Regent’s mistress. If the rumors are true, then she’s the one who’s funding his regency, allowing him to keep the City Watch and the military under his control.”

                “But I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Martin interjects. “Campbell never referred to her by name. We’ll have to go to Sokolov himself if we want to identify her.”

                Corvo pauses, thinking. “So you want me to go find the information?”

                Havelock shakes his head. “It would be better if we could get ahold of Sokolov himself. Not only would we learn the name of the mystery woman, but we would also have access to one of the greatest minds in the Empire. Not to mention that the loss of the Royal Physician would hurt the Lord Regent’s standing immeasurably.”

                Corvo cannot stop the dubiousness from entering his voice. “You want me to kidnap the man who is both the Royal Physician and the Head of the Academy of Natural Philosophy?”

                “Put bluntly, yes,” Martin says. With an unreadable look on his face, he adds, “It shouldn’t be too hard, considering the tale Samuel told of your exploits with the Pendletons.”

                Ignoring the subtle barb, Corvo asks, “When am I to go?”

                With a sigh, Havelock replies, “Now, I’m afraid. Sokolov’s only rarely in his apartment on Kaldwin’s Bridge, so you’ll have to move quickly if you want a chance of catching him before he’s gone again. Samuel should be waiting for you down by the river.”

                Corvo nods. He turns to leave without another word, striding out of the door back to the dusty field. He heads towards Piero’s workshop before anything else, knocking once on the metal doorframe before stepping inside. “I got your weepers,” he says when the natural philosopher looks up. “There were two of them, down below the basements. Cecelia should know the way.”

                “Excellent,” Piero responds, putting down a glass phial. “I’ll contact my associate right away.”

                Corvo lets him be, climbing up the stairs and heading toward Callista’s tower. He’ll say goodbye to Emily, and then he’ll go.

                Callista’s voice sounds through the door, tone rhythmic and soothing, before he interrupts with a loud knock. Emily has the door open only a few seconds later, before Callista’s even had the chance to close the book of poetry on her lap.

                “I’m going out again,” Corvo says, crouching down to Emily’s height. “Stay with Callista while I’m gone, alright?”

                “But you’ll come right back, right?” she asks, tugging on the hem of her shirt.

                “I’ll try,” he says, “But there are things I have to do first.”

                Her face twists up in a frown, and she throws a quick glance over her shoulder. Callista is still sitting serenely in a chair in the center of the room, hands folded over the book. “Can’t I come with you?” Emily asks in an undertone. “I can help! I can be really quiet if I try.”

                Gently, Corvo shakes his head. “You’ve got to stay here and be safe. Besides, I think I interrupted your lesson.”

                Callista waves the comment away with a smile, but Emily looks ready to protest again. Corvo ducks his head until their foreheads are nearly pressed together, and he breathes, “I’ll be fine, Emily. I promise.”

               He can see her look down at the back of his left hand, considering his words. After a while, she reluctantly nods, expression serious. “Be careful, Corvo,” she says finally, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing him into a tight hug. He hugs her back just as tightly, before standing and backing away, giving a nod of farewell to Callista in the room beyond.

               He comes into the workshop, startling Piero from some sort of fiddling with a sleep dart. “I’m going out,” he says. “Is there any material in particular I should look for?”

               “Oh, yes. Any more of those vials of powdered crystal would be perfect.” He pauses. “Though I would never turn down anything you bring to me, of course, with money as tight as it is.”

               “I’ll find you the crystal,” Corvo replies. “In exchange for the things you’ve made.”

               “Oh, alright then. Ah, thank you, Corvo,” Piero says, taking his glasses off of the bridge of his nose and rubbing them clean on the fabric of his shirt.

               He turns and leaves before Piero can say another word, heading out toward Samuel on the river. The old boatman has apparently already been informed of their destination, because he just says, “Ready to go?”

                Corvo nods and settles into the boat. His mask slips easily from his bag and slides just as effortlessly over his face, clipping sturdily into place. He blinks his eyes, and his vision goes just barely blue, tinted by the colored lenses of the mask.

                Samuel starts up the motor and pulls away from the shore, leaving the Hound Pits Pub behind them.

\-----

                The floodlights on the bridge come into view before the bridge is little more than a dark shape on the horizon. Samuel points them out with a casual hand, muttering lowly, “You’ll have to find a way to disable those lights before I can pick you up near Sokolov’s house. Otherwise, we’ll be spotted for sure.”

                Corvo nods, already ungloved hands curling into his coat pockets. “Where should I look for you?” he asks, voice just as quiet.

                “Underneath the arches, I think,” Samuel says. “As soon as you get the lights out, I can get into position and wait for you.”

                They go quiet as Samuel pulls up to the Southside loading dock, weaving between a lucky few floodlights that have already burned out. Corvo steps silently onto the concrete, nodding his thanks to Samuel as the boatman turns and heads back the way he came.

                Corvo immediately casts Dark Vision, looking upward past a metal staircase. A chain to his right glows vibrantly blue, but without knowing the layout, he doesn’t want to risk using it and making noise. As he creeps up the stairs, an announcement starts up, and he pauses in place to listen.

                “Citizens and visitors to our city: by order of the Lord Regent, curfew is now active! No foot traffic is allowed across Kaldwin’s Bridge until curfew is lifted. Attention all citizens: no pedestrian movement is allowed along Kaldwin’s Bridge during this period. Curfew will end tomorrow morning, at sunrise.”

                Now there’s a curfew, on top of everything else he has to deal with. Shaking his head, Corvo comes to a small landing, putting his head about level with the street. A guard leans against a wall, and another walks by, clearing his throat loudly. Corvo eyes the small roof above the first guard’s head, testing the distance with his blink. He’s just short, and he sneaks forward, step by careful step, until the light shines atop the roof and he lets himself fly. He moves quickly behind an exposed air vent, just as a guard says to his companion, “Hey! I heard you got eaten alive at cards.”

                Corvo renews Dark Vision when it fades, studying the area from his new vantage point. There’s a temporary guard station just in front of him, another watchman standing inside. The main roadway of the bridge has been sealed with a plague barrier, a sign above the doorframe reading ‘Closed due to Curfew.’ He frowns when he sees it, looking up at the high, high rooftops and realizing he won’t be crossing the bridge that way.

                Another guard walks up to the guard station from off to Corvo’s left, pausing for a moment to converse with his companion inside the booth. Curious, Corvo risks dropping down onto a metal awning, putting a hand on the brick wall and leaning around the corner to see the place the guard had come from. In between several pillars, he sees a solitary door, evidently leading into some kind of warehouse. It’s better than nothing, he thinks.

                With another glance to ensure the guard hasn’t turned around, Corvo blinks toward it, yanking the door open and hurrying it shut behind him. He comes to a staircase, the place above scattered sparsely with green in his Dark Vision. He climbs upward, stepping around a few rats, and he pulls open several storage lockers to find tins of whale meat and chunks of Tyvian ore for Piero. All get swept smoothly into his bag.

                The only other door on this floor is locked, and has several watchmen beyond besides, so Corvo instead goes upstairs, looking for an alternate route. A little railcar sits on a deactivated track, evidently used to transport goods further North on the bridge. A quick glance around with Dark Vision reveals a key to the locked door, a vial of Piero’s Remedy, and a strange blueprint labeled ‘Folded Galvani Resin.’ The last looks utterly incomprehensible, but, as is becoming the norm, he pockets it anyway, thinking the magic would not draw attention to it if it isn’t important.

                The power source for the railcar glows vehemently, and Corvo looks up to see several filled canisters of whale oil waiting and ready on a second floor loft. Since he sees no other way out of this building aside from the locked door on the lower floor, he blinks up and picks up a container gingerly. He hesitates before making the drop back to the floor, worrying about explosions, but he lets himself fall anyway, touching down on the concrete without a problem. He quickly plugs the whale oil in, watching as the metal grate to the outside lifts away and electricity begins to hum on the railcar track.

                Impulsively, Corvo climbs inside the car and pulls the lever, hoping that he isn’t about to draw the attention of every guard on the bridge. But he passes by unnoticed, the car coming to a stop beneath a metal awning. He quickly blinks across the street into a hopefully abandoned building, where he is immediately assaulted with the hissing of a rune. He goes to push open the door, hearing the rune sing beyond, but it’s jammed. Frustrated, he peers through the keyhole, hoping there’s another way into the room and the magical artifact. If he looks as far to the left as he can, he can see what appears to be an open balcony. With a few quick blinks from the open window, down a set of stairs, and a short climb up a chain, and he’s putting away this rune as well.

                He turns back to the street, watching with Dark Vision as several guards patrol up and down the length of the bridge. Still, none seem alarmed, at the railcar or anything else, so Corvo thinks he’s gotten away with the risky act unnoticed. He peers around the wall of the abandoned building toward the North end of the bridge, worried that there might be more plague barriers blocking the way. But there’s nothing but a door, so he waits until the guards’ backs have turned, teleports down, and pushes his way inside.

                He comes to a stop when he sees a watchman and a nobleman standing in fading sunlight, barring the way forward. He draws closer slowly, and parts of their conversation come into focus.

                “-and the weepers, excuse me, the plague victims are worse. Are you saying the Lord Regent is wrong for imposing curfew?”

                The nobleman scoffs. “It won’t do you any good to bait me officer. But don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’ll profit. A smart man can come out ahead, even in a time of plague.”

                Corvo spies a shaded archway and blinks past, deciding it wouldn’t be worth the trouble to deal with the guard and the civilian both. But as he goes to move past, a voice calls out, and he freezes, thinking he’s been spotted. But then the voice continues, seeming content to talk without any audience.

                “Look past me, moon. Look past me, sun. I am not your bride. You will not come to me today. I will be untouched!”

                Corvo moves further into the shadows, casting Dark Vision and looking directly upward toward the speaker. He sees the shape of a man twisted painfully in death, another man leaning out over a railing, a sword attached at his waist. Corvo would pass this by, too, but he sees the distinctive and familiar shape of a rune, and he hesitates. The rambling man turns and paces back and forth inside the building, and Corvo chances creeping out into the street, looking upward. He teleports immediately to the roof of the archway, noting with some confusion a cabinet and chair lying on their sides atop the roof tiles. He looks up again, and now he can see violet light reflected against the room’s ceiling.

                That explains the madness, he supposes.

                He blinks to a vent shaft and climbs over the balcony railing, dropping quietly onto the metal grating. The madman is leaning out over another balcony, shouting down at the water, so he doesn’t notice Corvo when he creeps up behind him and chokes him into unconsciousness. Corvo holds the man’s head steady on the way to the floor, already looking around with some amazement at the room. Most of the furniture has been piled against the door, sealing it shut and preventing any mundane form of entry. The corpse he had seen earlier sits rotting against one wall, amid piles of paper refuse. And then there is the shrine, huge and resplendent, taking up perhaps a full third of the room, whale oil lanterns stacked on chairs and on the floor. All of the walls of this entire corner have one phrase written repeatedly across the surface, in something blacker than charcoal.

                The Outsider walks among us. The Outsider walks among us.

                Corvo goes and takes the rune from the stand, prepared for the rush of wind and the oppressive silence of the Void as it falls, and then the Outsider is before him.

                “How far you’ve come,” the Outsider muses, bobbing gently in the air above the shrine. “I hadn’t expected to find you here for some time yet.”

                ‘What can you tell me about Sokolov,’ Corvo doesn’t ask, thinking it rude to demand anything of a god, but the Outsider’s face twists into the faintest frown as if he had heard the question anyway. “Sokolov,” he says, and there is something like distaste coloring his voice, “is utterly uninteresting. He sees the surface of a truth and believes he knows its essence, and that it will now bend to his will. Did you know he seeks my runes, clawing for them among the river mud and grime? But they aren’t meant for him, not in the way they are meant for you. He can’t hear their songs, no matter how he may believe otherwise. In his hands, they will never be more than carved bits of bone, utterly devoid of the power he so yearns for.”

                The Outsider’s attention visibly shifts, and he turns to face Corvo more directly, black eyes glittering. “But _you_ have proven far more interesting than I anticipated. Here you stand, under the pretense of serving those who believe they hold power over you. But you and I both know you have no intention of subservience.” The shadows around the god’s shoulders seem to spread further, plunging more light into darkness and silencing the last sounds of the world beyond. “You have seen the look on ‘Overseer’ Martin’s face when you refuse to bow to his demands.”

                Corvo hears the odd emphasis on Martin’s title, and he frowns, wondering what the god might mean. He knows better than to ask, even in thought alone.

                The Outsider smiles. “How much longer will you carry out this charade, before one of you admits defeat? I look forward to the moment the balance shifts. Do keep it interesting until then.”

                The Outsider fades by patches, the pale skin on his face dissolving before anything else. For a brief moment, Corvo is looking through a void in the god’s cheek to the collar of his shirt, absolutely nothing in the space between. And then the room is back to normal, unconscious madman in one corner, rotting corpse in the other, and the shrine standing tall over it all.

                Corvo slides the rune into his bag with the others, eyes still wandering over the scribbled messages all over the walls as he mulls over this newest information. So Sokolov has an interest in the Outsider, or at least in his runes. Corvo had worked with the man for more than a decade, and he had never known. Then again, he must admit that he spent little time actually interacting with him, as the positions of Royal Physician and Royal Protector rarely crossed paths. He had only ever exchanged a handful of words at a time with Sokolov, and never outside of a somewhat formal setting. They were barely acquaintances, and certainly not friends.

                But perhaps he can use this new knowledge to his advantage, he thinks, looking down at the Mark on the back of his hand.

                Corvo blinks back down to the road, taking a left turn when he sees a gate barring his way. He’s about to step out into the sunlight when low, angry voices reach his ears, and he stops to listen.

                “Well, that was a waste of effort. Alec’s gone, and so are the pearls. I hope he at least stashed them before he got caught.” He has the cadence endemic among the thugs that patrol the alleys and back streets, so Corvo believes that this must be a member of one of the street gangs.

                Another voice chimes in, accent similar to the first, “You were the one who told him to go scout around.”

                “That’s right,” the first voice says, sarcasm dripping from his words. “’Scouting’ is when you find out what the guards are doing and come back.”

                “Well,” the other says, and Corvo can hear the smirk in his voice, “now we know what the guards are doing.”

                At that moment, a guard comes around the corner, walking away from Corvo’s position, and he takes the risk to blink up behind him and choke him into unconsciousness. He lifts the man onto his shoulder and teleports up onto a low rooftop, setting him down gently out of reach of the rats. He blinks beneath boards across a window, coming face to face with a pair of corpses. One has a cleaver sticking out of his gut. A quick glance at a note on the table seems to imply that the two men were playing cards together, and the loser had lost his temper and killed his opponent.

                Corvo hears guards talking some distance away, and he goes to move closer. But then he hears sharp electronic crackling, and he speeds backward. They’ve installed a Void damned arc pylon on Kaldwin’s Bridge? What could Burrows possibly be thinking?

                Before he can truly process the thought, a guard shouts, “Hey, you there, come out of hiding!” For a moment of confusion and panic, Corvo checks that he couldn’t have been seen, but it’s just the two street thugs charging out into the open. Part of him wants to shout at them for their idiocy, but by then it’s too late. As the thugs reach for the explosive bottles on their belts, swinging their cleavers wide, the arc pylon crackles to life and fries them both to ashes.

                It takes a moment for the guards to settle down again, and Corvo bites the inside of his lip, thinking through his options. As he looks around a haphazard wooden barrier, watching the guard patrols, he catches sight of another arc pylon in the distance, and he curses. He’ll have to try and find another way around.

                He climbs out of another window and blinks atop a marble pillar near where the thugs had been hiding. From there, he teleports to the top of a temporary guard station, hoping desperately that he’ll be out of range of the arc pylon. Thankfully, another guard station sits between Corvo and the pylon, preventing any fatal encounters with the machine.

                He looks out toward the bridge. Directly in front of him are the thick metal supports, slanting upward toward the extreme heights of the South Tower. They look sturdy enough, and they’re high enough into the air he thinks he can get around the second arc pylon. Steeling himself, he blinks forward, one hand on the metal before him for balance. He creeps as far upward as he can, until the slope becomes impossible and he has to stop in place, thinking. He blinks once up to a thickly welded joint, and again onto a platform, and then he is on stable ground, in the center of the South Tower.

                “What’s going on there?” a voice demands, and Corvo whirls, extending and swinging his sword in one motion. He catches the startled guardsman across the throat, and he collapses quickly, choking on his own blood.

                Corvo grimaces down at him, watching the blood spread. He doesn’t like killing, especially when it’s false accusations of murder that had gotten him thrown into Coldridge in the first place. And to kill a guard, whom he might have worked with in the past, leaves an especially sour taste on the back of his tongue. He leaves the man be, knowing the thought of this death will follow him, and he looks upward.

                Construction on Kaldwin’s bridge had never truly been completed, and all work had stopped entirely with the advent of the plague. But Corvo can see the ghosts of scaffolding left behind by the workers, and he thinks he can get up to the top. That will certainly let him avoid the arc pylons.

                He knocks down a wooden barrier with his sword, climbing up a dangling chain. He twists and leans to aim his blinks upward a few times, hopping from platform to platform, until he comes to another chain. At the height of this one, he blinks up onto a metal crossbar atop the bridge, and suddenly the entirety of Dunwall is spread out before him, magnificent in the sunset. Corvo crouches, a hand again on the metal for balance, and he creeps northward, his gaze wandering from the clock tower, to the unmistakable form of Coldridge, to Kingsparrow Lighthouse in the distance, a dark spire against the water. He moves slowly and carefully across the bridge, until he is sliding between the huge wheels supporting the northern end of the drawbridge and he can blink down to a more stable platform. Several chains wait for him, and he climbs down, dropping onto another platform, and then down onto some grating.

                He can hear the hum of electricity, and he looks down to see two large canisters of whale oil plugged into a machine on the wall. Huge cords spider-web out from the power source, and Corvo knows he’s found the way to stop the floodlights. He drops down and pulls open the door, taking the oil canisters out of their sockets and listening to the machine power down, watching lights flicker out all around him. For good measure, he tosses the containers out into the water, even though he knows the huge splashes will draw attention. It might give him more time if the Watch has to find two new canisters of oil, rather than replacing what he might leave behind.

                From here, the setup of the bridge is identical, and he blinks about halfway down the slanting metal support and again onto a temporary guard station. He teleports rapidly, concerned that the guards will notice him, down into a shaded alley, and again to the base of a staircase. If he remembers correctly, it should lead to the Midrow Substation, and take him that much closer to Sokolov’s house on the northern end of the bridge.

                He pushes open the door to find yet another rune, lying out in the open atop a table. He slips this into his bag too, climbing out onto a rooftop. From here, he blinks atop the control house for Midrow Substation, squinting his eyes against the light of the sun toward his goal. A wall of light blocks the only visible path, and he frowns, tracing the cords with his eyes. The power source seems to be behind the large, turning wheels of the factory, spinning with alarming speed that he couldn’t hope to pass through. But perhaps he doesn’t have to.

                He casts Dark Vision to reaffirm the location of the guards, and then blinks to the top of an oil silo. From there, he can blink above and beyond the spinning wheels of the factory, falling a good three meters and hitting the concrete heavily. Moving quickly, he disengages the whale oil from the power source and teleports atop an air vent, hoping no one had seen him.

                “Damn, it’s off,” a guard says, gesturing toward the wall of light. “Once they get the reliability up, these things will be worth it.”

                Corvo holds his breath until he turns around, and then he blinks through the deactivated wall, hurrying toward a distant door. As he goes to push it open, he hears the sound of a bone charm, and he pauses, heading toward the noise instead. The door into the building is shut tight, evidently blocked from the other side, so he blinks up to a visible balcony overhead, looking around with Dark Vision. He takes a few steps forward, and a voice below him calls, “Is someone around? Help me!”

                He looks directly down to see a huddled woman atop a small stone platform, a huge sea of rats swarming around her. Corvo immediately heads down the stairs, taking a running leap from the broken edge where the metal had rusted and scrambling atop a stone platform of his own before the rats can get to him.

                The woman looks up at him, terror plain on her face. “Find a way to keep these rats off of me so I can get out!”

                Corvo has never found a more effective method for dealing with the rats than picking them off one by one, so he crouches at the edge of his platform, readying his sword. The rodents come rushing toward him at once, and he slashes out, catching one in the ribcage, and another across the back, and another, and another. The woman watches in hopeful silence as he works, until finally the swarm lies mostly dead around him, the last few stragglers fleeing. Corvo wipes the blood from his blade on a nearby mattress, offering a muttered apology to the corpse of the man who once slept there.

                “Thank you for helping me,” the woman says, stepping gingerly down off of her platform. “I thought it was safe,” she continues, “but there were rats, so many rats. Completely infested. I know some folks aren’t superstitious, but I swear, the rats showed up after a man came through, waving around an amulet of some kind. It looked like it was made of bone.” Corvo can feel himself perking with interest, but she waves a hand, rapidly changing the subject. “But he’s dead now, like the others who were living here.”

                She turns and walks away, leaving Corvo free to pinpoint the source of the ringing. He finds the charm as promised next to the body of a man curled protectively around a journal. He pockets the charm with a nod to the dead man, listening to the dark magic song cutting out all at once at the touch of his skin.

                He climbs back up the stairs, passing the woman and coming to the other side of the blocked door. He slashes down the planks with his sword, pushing open the door and heading back out onto the street. He should about be to the Northend Bridgeway, he thinks.

                Hopefully, Sokolov shouldn’t be too far away. He doesn’t have much further to go.

                The door swings shut behind him as he steps into the shadows, and the sun continues its inexorable trek through the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bluh, I know, abrupt ending, but I had to, or else this thing wouldn't have ended until it was fifteen thousand words.
> 
> See you next week.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? A chapter? What is such a thing???
> 
> But in all seriousness, I deeply, deeply apologize for the dearth of recent work. To be blunt, my life has kind of been terrible in recent months. Every last member of my immediate family has been in and out of the hospital, I myself got tremendously ill, and the various pills I'm on have had exciting new side effects to make me extra miserable. Add a huge family argument that still has us near-shouting at each other whenever we see one another, and the incoming pressure of college classes and exams, and I frankly dropped the ball with this fic.
> 
> But I'm back now! With a somewhat short chapter, my apologies. But I'm working on this again, which is definitely an improvement.  
> I can't promise chapters with any regularity, but I can promise I will be writing. I'll get the next chapter up whenever it's finished, I swear it.
> 
> PS I went back and deleted that last scene with Piero because it was stilted and awkward and didn't achieve what I wanted it to. If you can't remember it anyway due to the gap, good! More's the better.
> 
> Anyway, sorry I took so long, and here you go. Please enjoy, and thank you for all of your supportive comments. It means the world.

               Corvo creeps forward, watching a little group of rats flee in the bright yellows of Dark Vision.To his left, there are a couple of corpses, and what looks like a large urn glowing bright and green. He doesn’t really want to bother with lugging around the huge urn, despite how valuable it may be, but getting inside the apartment might allow him to get back to the rooftops, instead of staying trapped in these dark and claustrophobic alleys. The door’s open when he tries it, and he follows a staircase upward. But there’s another blockage in the way and he huffs out a frustrated sigh. He retraces his steps, casting a glance at a floodlight and a guard posted at the end of the alley. He follows another group of rats down a side path, where he finally finds a staircase and a low rooftop. He blinks up onto an air-conditioning unit, when low voices of watchmen reach his ears.

               “-citizens? If you follow my meaning sir.”

               “You have no mind for natural philosophy!” Another retorts. “Obviously it’s because the ones already with the plague don’t live long enough to provide Sokolov with any useful information.”

               “It’s just a shame, is all. Like that woman the other day. She was easy enough to look at. Seemed nice enough. Shame she has to die, I mean. And so horrible-like, too.”

               “Now you listen to me: it’s none of our concern, the how or why of things…”

               Corvo stops paying attention, creeping forward to the edge of the roof, feeling his face contort beneath his mask. Now that he’s looking for it, he can see a huge Wall of Light blocking a group of maybe five or six people from escaping a metal-and-wood _cage_. He follows the vent shaft to a neighboring building, balancing precariously on crumbling brickwork and collapsing hardwood. From this high vantage point, he can see the whale oil tank powering the Wall of Light, left in the open and unguarded, just a scant meter from the bars of the cage.

               Corvo’s scowl deepens. While he might understand the desperation for a cure among the population, and the pressure this puts on natural philosophers like Sokolov, he cannot condone willfully harming innocent civilians. He thinks of the disgust in the Outsider’s voice when he had talked about Sokolov, and he thinks he understands a little better.

               He already knows he’s going to free these people before the thought has really solidified in his mind. With Dark Vision, he can see two guards patrolling nearby, and if he peeks around the shattered remains of a corner, he can see a third beyond the range of the magic. He’ll probably have to take them out if he wants any chance of freeing the civilians. Considering, he draws his crossbow with the improved sleep darts, wondering how quickly he can fire off three shots. But that doesn’t matter when he can slow time itself, he realizes.

               He loads a dart and grabs two more, readying his magic and looking down at the street. One of the guards has come to a stop, looking out over the river, and the other two have walked farther down the road. Taking a breath to steel himself, he yanks time into a molasses-slow drag, blinks down to ground level, and fires off three shots, one after another. Before the black-and-white starbursts fade, he hurries over to the power source, disengaging the tank and placing it gently on the ground.

               Normal speed reasserts itself and with triplicate groans, all three guards collapse where they stand. The Wall of Light crackles into deactivation, and the captive citizens whip around to stare at him, obviously shocked.

               “Go,” he says, well aware of the spectacle he has just made, grinning skull mask heavy on his face. “Leave. Hurry.”

               In twos and threes, they start to obey, but from down the alley comes the angry shout of “Hey! Wake up!” Before Corvo can react, two more guardsmen come charging around the corner, pistols and swords drawn. The citizens scatter in panic, but the movement just draws attention. One two, one two, shots go off, and bodies begin to fall. Corvo rushes forward, shoving his uselessly unloaded crossbow into his bag, his own blade held at the ready.

               A guard’s eyes widen above his protective plague mask, and he quickly readjusts his aim down the barrel of his gun. Not fast enough, though, as Corvo spins and slashes and gets through the heavy leather of his uniform to slide the blade between his ribs. The guard’s companion shouts in wordless anger, dashing forward too and catching Corvo’s sword against his own in a spark-spitting contest of strength. Corvo’s anger has leant him power, and he shoves the watchman violently backward, slashing him across the throat and leaving him there to bleed out on the cobblestones.

               Flicking the blood from his blade, Corvo’s eyes wander to where one of the civilians lies dead face-first against a wall, a bullet wound precisely between his shoulder blades. He looks young, just barely past his teen years, and therefore barely past the age that would have sent him from Dunwall in the protective evacuation of the city’s children.

               Still feeling helpless anger crashing within him, he recasts Dark Vision and stalks down the road past the two unconscious guardsmen. Near another quarantine wall, several men are moving boxes into a large railcar, muttering to each other over the bustle, and Corvo decides they aren’t worth his time. He turns right instead, squinting against the harsh glare of a floodlight, when he hears someone clear their throat alarmingly close by. He drops into a crouch and presses himself best he can behind a table, looking up to see a human silhouette. The man isn’t wearing a City Watch uniform, and as he turns and walks along the metal balcony, Corvo’s Dark Vision fades and he sees the familiar coat of an Overseer. The Lord Regent- or maybe just Sokolov himself- must be getting concerned, if they’re assigning Overseers to protect a natural philosopher. The religious and philosophical factions have never gotten along very well.

               Corvo blinks past the Overseer when his back is turned, landing on a large pipe above a waterwheel. He has to move to hands and knees to duck under the supports to the balcony, but from the end of the pipe he can blink onto another low platform. He finds himself in some sort of wine cellar, and through the ceiling above him, he can see several more guards and Overseers, surrounded by bits of glowing blue machinery. He’s finally found his way into Sokolov’s house: now to find the philosopher himself.

               He slinks up a staircase and around a corner, and comes to a wide-open room that looks more like a warehouse than part of a home. Broken walls of light and alarm systems are clustered together next to barrels and covered canvases, all lit by floodlight and positively surrounded by guards. One painting in particular is a solid green rectangle in Dark Vision, but he doesn’t see a way to get to it without alerting the whole building. He’ll grab it if he gets the chance, but he won’t worry about it too much if he misses it.

               Two rats fuss over some scrap of food on the ground nearby, and he easily adds his possession ability into his calculations. Actually, now that he considers it, he’s never tried out his new ability to possess humans, either. His previous experience with the wolfhound suggests to him that a human would survive the ordeal, though probably worse for wear, so that might give him the chance to leave a few unnecessary deaths off his conscience.

               An unusual silhouette comes into view and Corvo ducks down deeper into the stairwell, stifling a curse. If that’s what he thinks it is, then the Overseers have Void-damned music boxes. He’s never felt the effects of Holger’s music in the time since he was Marked, but if memories of conversations about the screams of captured heretics were anything to go by, then he doesn’t want to. He’ll have to take that Overseer out first, and hope that there aren’t any more music boxes in the building. If worse comes to worse, he knows he can handle himself in a fight, mostly because he has his magic to back up his not-inconsiderable skill. Take away the supernatural advantage and turn it into a weakness, however…

               No. He’ll take the Overseer first. When the bright yellow shape comes near enough, he hurries to the top of the stairs and casts a possession before he can change his mind. Whispers roar in his thought and he is ten meters away, the heavy weight of the music box weighing down his shoulders. The Overseer immediately rebels against him, going fuzzy and alarmed, so Corvo turns for the staircase and heads down again, determined to get out of the way before he draws notice. He almost makes it all the way back to the waterwheel before his vision warps and pulses and suddenly he and the Overseer are two people again. The Overseer gasps and chokes, shoving his mask upward and vomiting onto the metal floor. Corvo doesn’t let him recover, catching him as he goes to wipe his mouth and choking him into unconsciousness.

               Breathing heavily himself, Corvo drags the man to a wall, turning him on his side so he won’t choke on his vomit if he pukes again. With a grimace, he unhooks the music box from the Overseer’s harness and throws it into the river.

               He takes the time to drain a bottle of Spiritual Remedy, heading off a building headache before it can cripple him. Eying the remaining two vials, he casts aside the niggling idea that he might just repeat his possess-and-choke trick with the rest of the guards. He’ll have to find his way through the house some other way.

               He thinks about the rats in the wide-open room and decides he’ll do that. He hadn’t seen anywhere for Sokolov to do his work on the first floor, so he must be somewhere higher. With silent footsteps, he returns upstairs and slips into the rat’s mind, dashing for the second floor as fast as tiny rodent feet will carry him. He has a heart-stopping moment of panic when a guard lashes out at him with a stomp, muttering about “filthy vermin,” but otherwise he reaches the higher floor unscathed. A Wall of Light blocks his progress forward, so he has to turn left, entering some sort of kitchen. A maid is bowed over a pot on the stove, stirring something, but already Corvo can feel the possession ending. He tucks himself into the corner as best as he can moments before the magic fails and the rat falls dead, but he’s not well-hidden enough. The maid begins to turn, asking, “What was that?” with rising alarm, and he has to dash forward, catching her around the neck and choking her into silence.

               He lowers her into the same corner he had failed to hide himself in, hoping he’ll have enough time to figure out what to do before she is discovered. Left of the kitchen is some sort of dining room, full of fine wooden tables and chairs, several large bookcases filled to bursting along the walls. Passing through this just brings him back to the hallway, leaving him with no way past the Wall of Light. Well, the possession trick had worked perfectly before, so maybe it will work again.

               He backtracks down onto a lower floor until he can get a clear line of sight on a patrolling watchman. With a simple surge of magic the man’s mind is his, and he walks him up the long staircases and through the Wall of Light as easily as can be. He lets go of the magic and leaves the man to his confused sickness, hurrying past to the top floor of the house. He blinks from the doorway beneath a wall of pipes, following through the dark spaces beneath until he comes into what must be Sokolov’s bedroom. A book lies open on the bedside table, revealing passages about the Pandyssian continent when Corvo glances at it, and atop a nearby dresser is a vial of Piero’s Remedy and a map of the Old Coast. He tucks both into his bag, crossing to yet another staircase and coming into Sokolov’s study. He is surrounded by glowing green in Dark Vision, phials and bottles and jars full of strange ingredients scattered over tables and shelves.

               Corvo gathers several vials until his bag is near full to bursting. A last staircase here brings him to the rooftops, leading him to a greenhouse. He steps inside, looking at the variety of test tubes and tools scattered all around, when he hears the fizzing pop of a rune. It’s sitting next to an empty audiograph, as if it were just any other tool to help cure the plague, and Corvo steps up to pocket it.

               He looks around the greenhouse, confusion and concern beginning to settle into the pit of his stomach. He had looked through Sokolov’s entire house, and had never once come across the man himself. The Loyalists had promised that he would be here, hadn’t they?

               He strays back out onto the balcony, a frown on his face. He doesn’t have very long until guards below start finding unconscious bodies and raising the alarm. If he doesn’t find Sokolov today, any subsequent attempts will be much harder. He’ll have lost the element of surprise.

               Over the faint sounds of the waterwheel, he hears a door slam. Curious, he blinks across to a nearby roof, peering down over the edge to find the source of the noise.

               With the buzzing hum of electricity, the railcar he had passed on the way in powers up and starts down the track. A workman hefts an empty box and heads toward Sokolov’s house, wiping his face.

               Corvo watches the railcar begin to pick up speed and his heart plummets into the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t even thought- what if Sokolov was in that car, and he just missed his chance?

               A seabird squawks loudly on the edge of the roof. Corvo turns to face it, an idea forming in his mind.

               He casts the magic before he can reconsider, diving off of the roof and spreading his newly-stolen wings. There are a few terrifying seconds where he flaps and flails uselessly, but then the wind snaps through his feathers and he is _flying_.

               He doesn’t have time to savor the rush, beating the air as hard as he can in pursuit of the railcar. He has seen birds like these reach incredible speeds as they dive for fish in the Wrenhaven, but clearly, he doesn’t know the trick.

               He is saved from falling too far behind as the railcar slows to pass through a Wall of Light, giving him time to catch up. Unfortunately, this Wall is built into a tunnel, blocking any flight above it. He has to land awkwardly on a high ledge and cram himself through a small hole in the quarantine wall, ripping a few feathers from his chest and back. It hurts a great deal, and he knows his face would be screwed up against the pain if he were currently capable.

               With some difficulty in the cramped quarters of the tunnel, he angles himself through an open window at the back of the car, taking a hard tumble onto a pile of boxes. He flails wildly, trying to right himself, bashing his wings into a small box and sending it crashing to the floor. There is the sound of breaking glass, and Corvo freezes, one wing held stiffly up and out, his feathers ruffled and bloodied.

               “Go see what that was,” a voice calls from the other side of the railcar. “Check it wasn’t anything important.”

               Well. It seems he’s found Sokolov.

               Corvo fumbles his way behind a cardboard tower, peering with sharp bird eyes around the edge. A man in blue comes through the archway, crouching and reaching for the fallen box. Another Overseer.

               After a moment of hesitation, Corvo bounces out of his hiding place on tiny feet unaccustomed to movement on solid ground, moving behind the crouching man. He can already feel the magic beginning to fade, and he lets it go all at once, bursting back into his true shape and catching the Overseer in a chokehold in one motion. The man’s hands fly upward, scrabbling at the strangling arm, but in no time at all, he falls limp, unconscious.

               Corvo drags the man to the back of the car, propping him up against a wall. With a grimace hidden behind his mask, he steps over the tiny corpse of the dead bird; he’s not getting back out that way.

               He takes out his crossbow and loads a sleep dart. There’s no way a man as important to the Lord Regent’s reign as Sokolov would travel with just one guard.

               He casts Dark Vision, watching four men through the metal of the dividing wall. There are two seated on one side, one with a distinct long beard- Sokolov, and what looks like a City watchman. An Overseer stands at a window, looking out at the passing city. And finally, a man standing at the controls, his back to the rest of the car.

               Taking a slow, steadying breath, Corvo takes out a second sleep dart, ready to load it in his off hand. After one last moment to brace himself, he fires a sleep dart into the meat of the sitting watchman’s thigh, hurrying to load the next before the others have time to react.

               The Overseer is the first to spring into action, drawing his sword in a harsh ring of metal as his blade scrapes against the ornamentation of the scabbard. Corvo’s internal swordsman winces; that is no way to treat a weapon.

               Springing up out of his now-useless crouch, he rushes forward and fires, but the Overseer dodges to one side, and the sleep dart shatters into wasted showers of glass and hemlock against the railcar wall. Rather than struggle to reload it, he shoves his crossbow haphazardly into his bad, drawing his sword from his jacket pocket with an expert flick of his wrist.

               “How did you get aboard the car?” Sokolov demands, but both combatants ignore him, eyes on each other. With a sudden leap, the Overseer darts forward, slashing at Corvo’s side. He blocks, taking a step and retaliating with a strike of his own, opening up a tear in the blue Overseer jacket. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the wall of the railcar a scant two steps behind him. This place is much too small for a drawn out fight, especially if he doesn’t want to risk hurting Sokolov. He’ll have to end this quickly.

               With a lurch, the railcar’s brakes engage. Corvo takes advantage of the Overseer’s resultant stumble to drag his blade across his vulnerable throat. He shoves the gurgling Overseer down and away, whirling to face the final guard at the controls.

               The barrel of the gun glints in the electric light, aimed right at his chest.

               “Drop the weapon,” the guard demands, cocking the gun with a solid ‘click.’

               Corvo raises his hands, trying to appear unthreatening. The Mark glints silvery on the back of his hand, magic humming promisingly beneath his skin. Unseen beneath the mask, he smirks.

               The magic swells and with a flex of his hand the possession is cast. Familiar whispers roar within his head, and he feels himself compress and rush forward.

               He hears Sokolov’s sound of alarm as the weight of the gun settles into his stolen hand. He goes to make the guard re-holster it, but he can barely make the man’s arm move. His mind hadn’t been as… loud, perhaps, as the Overseer’s had been, but the resistance is just as great. With a great _push_ of magical power and sheer force of will, he makes the guard un-cock the gun and drop it to the floor. The swirling warping headache, warning of the impending failure of the magic begins to overwhelm him, and he wills himself backward, dropping back into his own body one step behind the watchman. The man clutches his stomach but Corvo doesn’t give him the chance to even retch, getting him into a headlock and choking him into unconsciousness.

               Now he’s left alone with Sokolov. He thinks briefly of the final sleep dart in his bag, but-

               He had passed through a Wall of Light to get into this tunnel. For all he knows there’s another one on the other end too. That leaves him trapped with threat of incineration on all sides, but Sokolov is keyed into the Walls…

               “Who are you, and what do you want?” Sokolov demands, cutting his thinking short.

               Corvo stands from his crouch, lowering his hands unthreateningly to his sides. He notes the way Sokolov’s gaze immediately goes to the black black Mark on his skin, something akin to hunger in his eyes.

               Corvo hesitates. The Loyalists think he should knock out Sokolov and bring him back to the Hound Pits before he wakes up, but Corvo has never really gone along with the Loyalists plans anyway. Besides, he and Sokolov may not know each other very well, but a decade of acquaintanceship has to count for something, at least.

               Still unsure, Corvo says, “I’m a friend,” voice muffled and strange beneath the mask.

               Sokolov scoffs, pointing to the unconscious guards and dead Overseer. “Oh surely, these are the actions of a _friend_. Now tell me; who are you and what do you want?”

               Corvo thinks briefly of the Mark on his hand and weighs it against the vague and uncertain future. If he tells Sokolov his true identity, then he will indelibly be tied with witchcraft in the natural philosopher’s mind, even after this mess with deposing the Lord Regent is over. Can he trust his future- _Emily’s_ future, to be safe in the hands of this man?

               With unease low in his belly, he decides he has little choice.

               Moving slowly, so as not to startle him, Corvo reaches up and detaches the mask from his face. He lowers it away, taking a grateful breath of air unimpeded by cloth and metal.

               Sokolov swears violently in Tyvian at the sight of the face beneath the mask. After a moment of muttering to himself, he looks up and asks, “So it _was_ Hiram that killed her?”

               A familiar stab of anger shoots through Corvo’s chest. “Yes,” he says, and he vows to himself once more that Hiram Burrows will die at his hand, and soon.

               “And blamed you for it, the _drittsekk_.” He dissolves into muttering again, one hand coming to his chin to stroke his beard. He shakes his head. “And what do you want from _me_?”

               “I am to take you somewhere safe,” Corvo eventually decides to say. “Away from him, and to help us. You have information we need.”

               “Us?” Sokolov interrupts.

               “A group of Loyalists.”

               “And you trust them?”

               Corvo goes silent, fighting to keep the frown from his face. Does he trust them? Other than Samuel, Callista, and perhaps some of the servants, no, no he doesn’t.

               Sokolov gives a bark of a laugh, but there is no humor in it. “You’ve no choice, I expect,” he says. With a significant look, he gestures at the Mark. “They don’t know about this, I suppose?”

               Shaking his head, Corvo says, “No they don’t. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

               “Should have thought of that before you started bandying it about,” he mutters, looking down at the unconscious watchman at the controls. “Well, where are we going then?”

               Relief crashes over Corvo like an ocean wave. “There’s a boat waiting for us beneath Kaldwin’s Bridge.”

               Sokolov raises his eyebrows dubiously. “Unattended?”

               With another shake of his head, Corvo elaborates, “With a boatman I _do_ trust. He’s expecting you.”

               The natural philosopher goes silent, still caught up in stroking his beard. After a long, long pause, he says, “I’m willing to help you and your half-baked revenge plan, _if_ …” and he pauses again, meeting Corvo’s eyes with that hungry look again, “if you’ll answer my questions about your Mark.”

               Corvo goes still, but very carefully does not go stiff. Truth be told, he had expected something like this. He has come to take Sokolov from a life of comfort with his every whim catered to into hiding in near-decrepitude. The losses Sokolov would face are obvious and huge, so clearly he would like something in return.

               The only thing Corvo has that a man like Sokolov would want is the magic in his veins.

               But it makes him so, so uneasy. He’s tried since day one to hide his power, knowing it could get him killed even if he weren’t the most wanted man in the Empire. Sharing anything about it feels dangerous, and he doesn’t want to risk leaving Emily alone.

               Too, is the thought that Sokolov is _unworthy_ of the knowledge. He hasn’t been chosen. The Outsider blatantly scorns the thought. And who is Corvo, to override a decision that a _god_ has made?

               Fighting to keep his jaw unclenched, he says, “Only away from the others. Only when it won’t interfere.”

               Satisfaction gleams in Sokolov’s dark eyes. “You have yourself a deal, my friend.”

               Something in Corvo wants to sag in relief, because he’s done it, he’s gotten Sokolov to help him with little violence and bloodshed, but he can’t stop the curl of unease. Magic is- is sacrosanct, and to use it as a bargaining chip feels irreverent and wrong.

               The Mark pulses with light and cold, and whether it is a confirmation of his thoughts or a denial he will never know.

               But his current problems are more immediate and more pressing. “Is there a Wall of Light on the other side of this tunnel too?” he asks.

               “Why, yes,” Sokolov replies. “I’ve had one put up everywhere I can on the way into the Academy. We don’t need our last hope for a cure overrun with the very plague rats we are trying to destroy.”

               Corvo winces. “And I don’t suppose the control panel happens to be in this tunnel somewhere?”

               Sokolov catches on at once. “Well how did you get through in the first place?”

               With a twitch at the corner of his mouth he can’t quite control, Corvo replies, “I was a bird and squeezed through a gap.”

               Say what he might about the tenseness of the situation, and the looming threat of the guards discovering the unconscious bodies, the look on Sokolov’s face is near priceless.

               Shaking his head as if to recover his composure, Sokolov finally asks, “And you can’t do that again?”

               “No. Animals don’t survive possession like humans.”

               Dark eyes flick to the unconscious guard at the controls. Corvo follows the line of sight too.

               “… I’m keyed into the Wall.” Sokolov eventually says.

               Corvo looks up to meet his gaze, remembering how easily he had walked through the Wall of Light within Sokolov’s house, wearing the skin of the watchman. “You would let me do that?”

               Sokolov shrugs, like offering yourself for voluntary possession is as simple as saying hello. “I see no other way, without attracting unwanted attention.”

               After a pause, Corvo says, “If you’re sure…”

               Receiving no objection, he raises his hand calling forth the power. His Mark flares, and immediately dies down again, and he scowls. Even as Sokolov looks on in confusion, he murmurs, “One moment,” digging through his bag for a vial of Piero’s Spiritual Remedy.

               Sokolov grimaces in distaste. “What on earth would you need that for?” he demands.

               Corvo drains it in one smooth pull before replying, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “It replenishes magical energies.”

               The natural philosopher’s gaze goes considering, looking at the empty Remedy bottle with new respect. “Get on with it then,” he says, flapping his arms dismissively.

               Corvo rolls his eyes, unnoticed as Sokolov is still staring at the Remedy bottle, but he casts the magic, feeling it flare properly this time and at once he is within Sokolov’s mind.

               Even with his current lack of a body, he feels tense and uneasy, and he doesn’t understand why until he realizes he is waiting for Sokolov to resist. Tentatively, he makes him take a step forward, but it is just as slow and unwieldy as it had been with all those he had tried before.

               “ _How long can you manage this?_ ” Corvo hearfeels, and he knows with disturbing clarity that Sokolov is _thinking_ at him.

               “ _Never for long before,_ ” he replies, “ _But they had been fighting me._ ”

               “ _Perhaps **you**_ _were fighting **them** , hmm?_” When he goes to move his own body, Corvo lets him, curious to see if his theory is correct. It is absolutely bizarre, sitting backseat and watching a body move on its own, but he figures Sokolov himself would be able to handle movement much more smoothly than he ever could in an unfamiliar form.

               Sokolov easily reconfigures the controls, another thing Corvo would not have been able to do, and the railcar starts moving back the direction it had come, clicking slowly along the tracks.

               “ _Where exactly is this boatman of yours?_ ”

               “ _Beneath the arches of the bridge,_ ” Corvo repeats. “ _If you can get us into your wine cellar, we can reach him easily._ ”

               A remaining guard makes sounds of surprise when he sees the railcar coming back his direction. He moves forward to investigate, but Sokolov is already in motion, stepping down from the car and slamming the door behind him.

               “What seems to be the matter, sir? I thought you were headed for the-”

               “Out of my way,” Sokolov snaps, effortlessly cutting across the man’s questions. “Of course these useless workmen would forget the most important component of my experiments.”

               The guard’s eyes widen in understanding. Straightening up, he asks, “Should I fetch it for you sir?”

               “No,” Sokolov says, still in that abrupt tone that brokers no argument. “I should have known. If you want something done right, you should always do it yourself.”

               He sweeps past, and in no time at all is climbing a metal stairway and stepping into the entrance hall of his house.

               “ _Well done_ ,” Corvo says. He certainly would not have been able to handle that anywhere near as well. Though there is no movement of the body’s eyes, he can feel the distinct sensation of an eye roll.

               They step down into the wine cellar, Sokolov showing no surprise at the presence of the unconscious Overseer. Thinking a little more ‘loudly,’ as if to overcome the noise of the waterwheel, he demands, “ _Now what?_ ”

               Corvo releases the magic, springing into existence behind the natural philosopher with a stumble. The man immediately doubles over with a hand pressed to his head, face twisted in pain. “You could have warned me,” he reproaches.

               “Sorry,” Corvo mumbles.

               Sokolov eventually follows him as he comes to the edge of the balcony. Corvo ducks down and activates Dark Vision, scanning for sign of Samuel. The boatman is actually in this exact arch, looking out toward the Wrenhaven with a cigarette held loosely between two fingers. Corvo eyes the distance from their balcony to the little concrete dock near the pylon, judging it close enough for his blink. “Hold on to me,” he mutters to Sokolov, and the natural philosopher obeys without question. Corvo takes a breath and blinks, and they land on the low platform near soundlessly.

               Sokolov straightens himself up, watching as Corvo immediately pulls his crumpled gloves out of his pocket and tugs them down over his hands. He says nothing.

               Quietly, Corvo calls out, “Samuel?”

               The man spins around, dropping his cigarette and snuffing it beneath his boot. “Back already? I haven’t heard any-” He freezes at the sight of Sokolov standing behind Corvo’s shoulder, eyes going wide.

               “Samuel,” Corvo says, “Meet Anton Sokolov. Sokolov, this is Samuel Beechworth.”

               “How do you do,” Sokolov says shortly, and somehow he makes it a sentence and not a question.

               “And- And you, sir,” Samuel says. He looks at Corvo, and adds, “I- suppose there was no trouble then?”

               “Not as much as there could have been,” Corvo agrees. “But we should leave now.”

               Samuel nods, stepping down into the boat and gesturing for his passengers to do the same. Sokolov settles in with a distasteful expression, eyeing the obvious hagfish circling in the grimy waters.

               “The others will be pleased to meet you, Mr. Sokolov sir,” Samuel says, clearly uncomfortable with the somewhat tense silence. “Piero will be right pleased to have someone to compare notes with.”

               Sokolov raises his eyebrows. “You have a natural philosopher?”

               Samuel nods, pulling the boat away from the dock, expertly avoiding any remaining lights as he heads out toward the river. “One of the best, according to him. Present company excluded, of course.”

               Sokolov humphs, but looks pleased at the compliment.

               Corvo smiles behind the mask. He’s glad that this part, at least, should work out just fine.

               It makes a refreshing change, for once.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo. Real life has been a mess lately. I apologize for the huge gap between chapters, but I insist this story remains un-abandoned. I will finish this, darn it!
> 
> For those of you wonderful people offering well-wishes and such, my health and that of my family has thankfully evened out a bit. Now the major obstacles to my writing are college and video games (Undertale has consumed my free time these past weeks).
> 
> But yeah! Here's a chapter, sorry for the huge wait, and thanks for sticking with me! I hope you enjoy!

               Samuel brings the boat slowly and easily into shore at the Hound Pits. Sokolov looks from the cracking brick, to the trash scattered all around, to the corrugated metal path from Callista’s tower to Piero’s workshop, all with a distinctly unimpressed expression. But he says nothing, following the others’ lead as he steps from the boat, still scanning the surroundings with a critical eye.

               Corvo reaches up and takes off the mask as soon as he is back on solid ground, shaking out his hair and scowling at the clinging dampness. Though he understands the necessity, the mask can get unpleasantly hot.

               Tucking it into his bag, he turns to face Sokolov. “I’ll introduce you to the others.”

               “Lead on,” is the response, but the tone still shows just how highly Sokolov thinks of his temporary residence.

               Corvo walks into the bar, looking around to see the place utterly abandoned. Lydia sticks her head around the door to the hallway, a warm smile on her face. “Welcome back, Corvo- oh!” She catches sight of Sokolov and straightens up, brushing imaginary dust from the front of her shirt. “Hello, Mr. Sokolov. Welcome to the Hound Pits Pub.”

               When Sokolov makes no move to reciprocate, Corvo interjects, “This is Lydia Brooklaine, hostess of the bar.”

               Sokolov manages a vague “hmm” of acknowledgement, but still says nothing.

               Corvo tries to keep his exasperation off of his face, but apparently he doesn’t quite succeed, because Lydia’s smile goes mischievous. Shaking her head minutely, she says, “The others are waiting upstairs in Admiral Havelock’s room.”

               Her smile is infectious, and he finds himself returning it. “Thank you, Lydia.”

               She waves them on upstairs, still smiling. When Corvo rounds a corner, he sees Cecelia vanish into the servant’s quarters, closing the door behind her. He makes a note to catch up with her later.

               Havelock’s door is open, and quiet talking can be heard within. Corvo walks right in with Sokolov shortly behind, cutting across Martin mid-dialogue.

               “Ah, Corvo!” Havelock booms. “Back already. You’re proving yourself quite capable.”

               “Thank you,” Corvo replies shortly.

               “And Sokolov too,” Havelock powers on. He offers a monumental hand out to shake. “Admiral Farley Havelock. Very glad to have you.”

               As Sokolov accepts the hand with an inclined head, Martin steps forward too. “Teague Martin. Welcome aboard.”

               “Lord Treavor Pendleton,” said man adds, giving an extraneous little bow. “I very much appreciate your work. You painted my portrait once upon a time.”

               If Corvo remembers correctly, Pendleton had been called ‘the postulate child’ in that particular painting. Not exactly flattering. With the smallest twitch of a smirk, he wonders if Pendleton even realized what that meant.

               They Loyalists at last move back, giving Sokolov space to stand on his own. “All pleasantries aside,” Havelock begins, scrubbing a hand over the lower half of his face, “you didn’t come all this way for introductions.”

               Looking directly at Corvo, Sokolov says, “No, I did not.”

               With some unease, Corvo notes the calculating gleam in Martin’s eyes. But Havelock talks over them, redirecting his attention. “Yes, well. Our sources tell us you are acquainted with the Lord Regent’s mistress?”

               Sokolov looks dubious. “I painted her portrait, if that’s what you mean. One of the Ladies Boyle, if I recall.”

               “ _One_ of them?” Martin interjects. “You don’t know which?”

               Sokolov’s expression doesn’t quite become a smirk, but it gets close. “I never said I painted her _face_.”

               Corvo feels his face try to twitch into a scowl, but he does his best to suppress it.

               Pendleton and Havelock both shoot looks toward Martin, as if asking for suggestions. The Overseer frowns thoughtfully. “And you’re sure you don’t know which one?” When all he gets is a shake of the head in response, he says, “then we’ll have to discover who she is. If we can’t then we’ll have no choice but to…”

               ‘ _Kill all three,_ ’ Corvo finishes silently, still repressing that scowl. He’s familiar with the way the Loyalists think by now, all violence and little patience. But Sokolov’s already giving a huge bark of a laugh, cutting across his musings. “With the security Hiram’s set up at Boyle Manor? There are Tallboys in the streets!”

               The scowl finally breaks free at the thought. He has never actually seen Tallboys in action, since they had come into service during his time in Coldridge. He doesn’t like the thought of having to deal with them, even with his magic to back him up.

               “If I recall…” Sokolov begins, drawing everyone’s attention, “there is to be a masquerade at Boyle Manor on the 28th of High Cold. Surely, this would create gaps in the security?”

               While Pendleton puffs up self-importantly to say how he had received an invitation to that particular party, Corvo pauses to consider it. If it _is_ a masquerade, that does make certain aspects easier. Once he gets inside, he might be able to move about with impunity. Actually _getting_ inside, however…

               Martin seems to be thinking along the same lines. “You said they sent out invitations?” he asks Pendleton. When he gets a nod, he continues, “Then there might be some kind of identification check at the door. We’ll have to find some other way around…”

               “The Boyles have a back garden,” Pendleton offers. “Though it is surrounded by a fence several meters tall…”

               “How close is the estate to the surrounding buildings?” Corvo asks.

               Pendleton turns to look at him as if he had forgotten Corvo was there, never mind that they are discussing _Corvo’s_ potential strategies. “Why, no farther than a street,” he says. “Ten, fifteen meters at most.”

               “Then I can get inside,” Corvo says, voice firm. The range of his blink is longer than that, and if he can get to the rooftops, he can go even farther.

               Martin gives a long, slow, considering lock, but seems to come to a conclusion. He nods once, and Havelock takes a step forward. “All right. Now that that’s settled, we can go about setting up your room. We have space available on the top floor, if you’d like to inspect it?”

               “Actually,” Sokolov begins, “I believe I passed a workshop on the way in.”

               Havelock gives a thunderous laugh. “Perhaps you _should_ go introduce yourself to Piero,” he chuckles. “Undoubtedly, you two will have much to talk about.”

               As Corvo gestures him back out into the hall with a jerk of his head, Sokolov goes quiet and thoughtful. Corvo doesn’t say anything to break the silence. He has to deliver the materials he has gathered to Piero, anyway, and then he can go see Emily. It’s been a stressful day, and he misses her desperately.

               Piero is upstairs when the find him, hunched over a table with a pen in his hand and a messy spread of notes before him. He looks up at the sound of their approach, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Corvo. I see you have returned.” He gives a short nod to Sokolov too, his face inscrutable.

               Deciding to act as if he hadn’t noticed the unusual coldness in Piero’s demeanor, Corvo says, “Piero, this is Anton Sokolov. Sokolov, this is Piero Joplin, Natural Philosopher and Master Craftsman.”

               Sokolov give a little acknowledging hum but he’s already moving to inspect the machinery around the workshop. He leans forward and inspects the central workbench, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “This is oil-powered?” he asks, gesturing to the fuel tank. “What tools do you have in here?”

               Piero and Corvo follow him back downstairs, the former needlessly adjusting his glasses again. After the briefest hesitation, the philosopher says, “I am limited by the size of the machinery. At the moment, I have a few, various hammers, a saw, a pneumatic drill-”

               “Pneumatic?” Sokolov interrupts, eyebrows raised. “Wouldn’t an oscillating drill be more efficient?”

               The conversation rapidly devolves into a mess of jargon and mechanics that goes right over Corvo’s head. He watches with some bemusement for a moment, then shakes his head and moves to a side table. He’ll just let them carry on for a while, he decides, pulling up his bag to leave out the materials he had gathered for Piero.

               With a whoosh and an actual gust of wind, a roar of popping, crackling Void wafts out of his bag. No longer muffled and hidden away, the sound is resonant and loud.

               Feeling the urge to fan away the rising darkness and starlight though neither leave any physical residue, he starts taking out the phials of powdered crystal and liquid hemlock, setting them all in a row on the table.

               The conversation behind him cuts off abruptly, and he looks up to see Piero peering at him inquisitively. He asks, “Did you bring some sort of clockwork device with you, Corvo?”

               Getting confused again, Corvo shakes his head.

               Piero frowns, approaching the table. “Then what is making that hissing?”

               Feeling his eyes widen, Corvo realizes Piero can hear the runes. In his shock he doesn’t shift the bag in time and Piero leans forward to see the collection of heretical whalebones, the Outsider’s Mark emblazoned across their pristine surfaces. Piero meets Corvo’s eyes, looking just as stunned as Corvo feels, and then his gaze flicks to Corvo’s gloved hand. “You have-” he starts, but then freezes, unsubtly casting a pointed look in Sokolov’s direction.

               Sokolov makes a tiny sound of comprehension, and shifts his weight forward, watching the conversation with interest.

               Corvo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose to fend off a rising headache. “He knows,” he says simply. Sure. Let’s have this conversation right here, he thinks. Right now, with Callista upstairs and capable of coming down at any moment, with the workshop doors thrown wide open, and a _Void-damned_ Overseer less than thirty meters away.

               Piero turns, wide-eyed, to Sokolov instead. The man himself looks rather put out about the whole ordeal, his already permanent scowl deepening. “You’re Marked too?” he asks dubiously, looking at Piero’s unblemished hands.

               “Not Marked, no,” Piero begins. He licks his lips. “There have been… dreams. Ideas. I suppose I suspected, but never really imagined…”

               “Dreams?” Sokolov interjects, eyes intense. “Of what sort?”

               “Blue light, mostly. Floating islands. Whispers. Once, very briefly, there was this… monstrous figure looming over me. I couldn’t see very clearly, but… I remember his face.” He glances at Corvo. “It was the inspiration for your mask.”

               Corvo thinks of it hidden away in his bag, the skull-like visage, mouth gaping eternally open… _That_ is how Piero sees the Outsider? Corvo had heard the stories, of course, of the Outsider as dead man half-rotted, as bestial and terrifying as the ocean depths that are his domain, but he had thought them to be Overseer propaganda after seeing the god with his own eyes. He wonders which vision is more true, that of the ethereally handsome young man, or that of the leering corpse, eyes blank and dead.

               With a surge of permeating cold, magic rushes into Corvo’s blood, carrying the strongest impression of the Outsider’s dark amusement.

               A gasp wrenches him from his introspection. “Your hand-” Piero blurts, and so he looks down. As the last of the bone-deep chill begins to fade away, so too does a faint light behind black fabric. Curious, he clenches his hand and calls the magic back up. Shining right through the glove as if it isn’t even there is the Mark, cyan and gold with concentrated magic. Well, that’s one good thing to come out of this disaster, he thinks. Better to learn now that the Mark cannot be hidden when activated, rather than some time later when it would get him in trouble.

               A door swings open and shut with a creak and a slam. Corvo quickly flips his bag closed, pulling the strap back over his shoulder. Without the crackle of Void, the silence is oppressive, broken by the crunch of gravel and dirt beneath Samuel’s boots as he crosses the yard to his boat. Corvo watches him, still feeling tense and shaken, set off-kilter by the thought that his secret could be – _has been_ – so easily found out.

               “We will continue this conversation later,” Sokolov says, a sour look on his face. He turns more fully toward Piero. “In the meantime, I would be very interested in any notes you have on your plague Remedy.”

               Piero still seems stiff and uncomfortable, but the chance to discuss his work with another natural philosopher must be too good to ignore. As the two begin a heated debate over the effectiveness of river krust bile versus hagfish mucous, Corvo takes his chance to escape. He heads upstairs and out onto the metal walkway to Callista’s tower, allowing himself a moment to take a breath. Knowledge of his Mark just seems to keep spreading. Emily, then Sokolov, and now Piero, not to mention all those that know of the magic in his masked persona. The _entirety_ of the Dead Eels, for example. If he’s not careful, gossip and rumor could spread too far, hurting the chance of getting Emily  to the throne and therefore to safety.

               He grimaces to himself. This is getting far too complicated, and it is feeling increasingly like he is one man against the entirety of the Empire. He briefly entertains the idea of taking Emily and just… vanishing. It wouldn’t be hard, not with his magic and natural ability. But it wouldn’t be fair to Emily, to have to deal with life on the run as well as all the terrible things that have happened recently. He owes stability and safety to her, more than anything.

               And Hiram Burrows still breathes, and so Corvo’s work here is not yet done.

               Shaking his head to clear away the increasingly dark thoughts, he knocks on the door to the tower. There’s a flurry of noise inside and a thunk before the door bursts wide open and Emily tackles him in a hug. “Corvo! You’re back!”

               He chuckles lightly, squeezing her back and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I am. I missed you.”

               Callista moves into the doorway, an affectionate smile on her face. If Corvo peers past her, he can see a mess of papers and a toppled book on the floor, apparently from Emily’s enthusiastic greeting. “Welcome back, Corvo,” Callista says, her eyes shining with amusement.

               He smiles back. “Do you mind if I borrow this for a while?” he asks, picking up Emily from under her arms and getting an indignant huff at the treatment. She bats at his shoulder and rolls her eyes squirming in his grip.

               “Go right ahead. I doubt we’d be able to get any work done now, anyway,” Callista replies.

               Emily struggles until he puts her down and takes his hand instead. “Thanks, Callista,” she says. She tugs Corvo back across the walkway and into Piero’s workshop. She pauses at the sight of Sokolov hunched over a blueprint of some sort and says, “Hello, Mr. Sokolov.”

               “Yes, yes, hello,” the philosopher murmurs, distracted. He glances up as Corvo passes by, reaching out to grip Corvo’s elbow. “We must schedule a time and place for our… talk.”

               “Not now,” Corvo says, fighting another scowl. Doesn’t he see there are more important things right now? Ignoring Emily’s inquisitive gaze, he says, “We can figure it out tomorrow.”

               “Good,” Sokolov mutters. “I’ll hold you to your word.”

               They pass through the workshop with no further incident, past Piero who is cursing under his breath and scribbling out several lines in some formula or another. When they get a little ways away down the street from the Pub, Emily asks, “What does Sokolov want to talk to you about?”

               With another grimace, Corvo replies, “He found out about my Mark. He only agreed to come here if I said I would let him study it.”

               She frowns deeply, looking down and away. “Why?” she eventually asks, kicking a wadded-up paper along the dingy street.

               Corvo thinks of the Outsider floating above his shrine, distaste in his voice, as he says, “ _He seeks my runes, clawing for them among the river mud and grime,_ ” then of the hungry look in Sokolov’s eyes as he looked at the back of Corvo’s hand. “I think,” Corvo says slowly, “that he wants to find a way to make himself a witch, too.”

               She bites her lip, her eyes flicking to his gloved hand. “I thought you needed the Mark.”

               He opens his mouth to agree with her, then pauses. The Outsider has emphasized the rarity of his gift, and in his service as Royal Protector, Corvo had never once heard of someone with the Mark, beyond vitriol-filled anecdotes from the Abbey of the Everyman. But on the day of Jessamine’s murder, there had been four or five assassins, all with magic. What are the chances that they had all caught the Outsider’s interest? Even if they had, what are the chances that they were all willing to work together?

               So he says, “Maybe not. I don’t know.”

               In a rush, Emily bursts, “But you could ask, right?”

               He glances down at her, surprised at the fervor in her voice. “I could,” he concedes. He hadn’t really thought about anything like this until she brought it up. He hasn’t had cause to worry about other witches, not while Burrows is still in power. Of course, there are the ones that committed the murder in the first place, but if he is perfectly honest with himself, he despairs of ever finding them. He has come to discover that stealth and concealment walk hand-in-hand with black magic, and he can only assume that more skilled practitioners, like the assassins, must be near-impossible to find if they wish to remain hidden. He has ignored the gnashing call for revenge as best as he can, focusing on the more immediate problems.

               Emily goes quiet, looking pensive. Corvo leaves her to it, continuing toward their temporary home. Once again, he is struck by the _emptiness_ of the streets. Though this district had begun to be supplanted by newer portions of the city – it was called the _Old_ Port District for a reason – there was still a sizeable population of dock workers and business owners. But now the place is barren, with trash and debris from the rapid evacuation scattered in and around the buildings. They pass a gutted convenience store and the smell of rotted food washes over them with nauseating force. A rat squeezes out of a gap in the wall, rearing up on its hind legs and sniffing the air. With a scowl and a hand on Emily’s back, Corvo steers them past.

               The abandoned apartment comes up before them. Emily climbs up into his arms without prompting, and Corvo blinks up to the second story balcony. He sets her down carefully, one hand lingering on her shoulder. “I’ll be right back, okay?” he asks, thinking of the whalebones weighing down his bag. She nods, still frowning in thought, and Corvo leaves her be.

               He moves into his room and upends his bag across his bed. He moves the hissing bones to one side, leaving the elixirs and ammunition to sort through later. He is again surprised by just how many runes he has; it hadn’t felt like so many as he was collecting them. With a frown, he realizes this means he’ll need more blood than usual to claim all of these. He vaguely remembers a mention of some sort of advanced healing offered by the magic in his head, and he thinks this time he’ll take it. He certainly has the runes to spare, he muses, the set of his mouth wry.

               The blade on his skin is very familiar by now, and the hesitance he once felt is long gone. The edge is sharp and his skin splits smoothly with only the barest twinge of pain. His blood is less cooperative, though; it races down his arm before he even has dropped his sword and splatters onto the bed in large, grape-sized drops. He makes a face down at it and hurries for the runes.

               The rush of power as the bones burst into dust and voices in his head is heady and intoxicating. Magic roars in his ears with a near-physical sensation, and it takes a surprising amount of willpower to draw himself up and out and direct his focus to the choices. He plucks out the healing before the options are even presented, dulling the roar down to a less overwhelming level. Pushing aside the seductive call for violence and death with an ease borne of practice, he turns his attention toward the rest of the whispers. After a moment of consideration, he chooses the whispers of speed and of control of the winds at his fingertips. With a sharp jerk, the stream of power cuts off abruptly, leaving him feeling bereft and disoriented.

               He wonders, briefly, if people without a Mark, like the madman on Kaldwin’s Bridge, could sense the power from the runes. If they could feel that all-encompassing rush. Shivering, he thinks he can see how magic could addict and enslave, despite all warnings to the contrary.

               His blood has dried by the time he reaches for the lone bone charm. With some curiosity, he peers down at his arm, wondering if the newly-activated healing is already working. It doesn’t look that different to him – it just looks like a row of parallel cuts in various stages of healing. With a shrug to himself, he opens a tiny nick just below the crease of his elbow, only enough to gather a smear of blood on his thumb. He presses this to a glyph on the bone charm, closing his eyes and waiting for the heart’s whispers.

               ‘ _This charm was carved in secret in a slaughterhouse. Its maker hid it in the heart’s blood of the very oxen he was slaying. It holds a power of its own; wear this, and you will have more magic to call upon when you cast._ ’

               Corvo looks down at the charm with a calculating look. He’s used seven runes just now; maybe he’ll be able to activate this one as well as his usual others. He clips it onto his belt, pausing and waiting for a drain on his magic, but there is none. Feeling hopeful, he digs in his bag’s side-pocket, where he had put the bone charm for swiftness in the shadows in hopes he could activate it at a later date. When he puts this one next to the others, he feels a sort of settling-in, and he somehow _knows_ he can’t manage another one just yet.

               The whole thing is starting to get unwieldy, though. He’s nearly out of space on his borrowed belt, and if he adds any more, he worries he won’t be able to crouch easily without jabbing bits of bone into his stomach or thighs. Wondering what to do, he runs his fingers absently across the row of charms, when the heart bursts into speech, overlapping and talking over itself.

               ‘ _The Void surges from within-_ ’

               ‘ _-swift passage through the shadows-_ ’

               ‘- _strength of your arms-_ ’

               ‘- _directly channel the Void-_ ’

               ‘ _-impervious to the touch of the water-_ ’

               ‘ _-heart’s blood of the very oxen_ -’

               With a gasp he snatches his hand away and the whispers cut off abruptly. He looks at the mess of objects across his bed, where the heart is beating steadily in reaction to the discarded bone charms atop the dresser. There’s… there’s something about the heart, something unsettling, something familiar, that he doesn’t want to think about. It presses at the edges of his memory, something he should remember, something he should know…

               Thinking about it makes bile rise up tight and anxious in his throat, so he stops. He pushes himself back to his feet, leaving the contents of his bag strewn across the bed and heading into the bathroom. Dried blood clings unpleasantly to his skin, starting to itch, and he wants to wash it off.

               He has mostly gotten used to the apartment, but he still doesn’t quite know where everything is. He opens the cabinets above and below the sink, looking for where the previous owners had kept the washcloths. He finds the towels, but not the washcloth he was looking for. With a shrug, we wets one corner of one towel in the water from the sink figuring it good enough.

               He expects a sting or a pull when he scrubs at the dried blood on his arm, but there is nothing. Curious, he peers down at it, and he is surprised to see not the row of cuts from just a few minutes ago, but instead a few pale scars, stark against the darkness of his skin.

               “What’s wrong?”

               Startled, Corvo looks up to see Emily standing in the doorway.

               “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, feeling somehow guilty, as if he had been caught in a lie. He scrubs at his arm, over-aware of the flaking red against the metal of the sink. With a twist to wring out the water, he drops the towel along the edge of the sink and pulls his sleeve down self-consciously. “What do you need?”

               “Nothing,” she echoes. She fidgets, scuffing her shoe against the floor and tugging down the hem of her shirt. Evidently mustering her courage, or perhaps changing her mind about something, she blurts, “Corvo, can I talk to you?”

               Feeling something within him soften at the earnest look on her face, he says, “Of course.” He gestures her back out into the hallway and then into the living room, pulling up a chair across from the couch. He settles down expectantly, hands clasped loosely over his lap.

               Emily seems to have lost some of her nerve, sinking gingerly onto the couch and folding a foot up underneath her. “I just-” she begins, looking anywhere but at him, “I was thinking…” With a shuddering breath, she bursts “I want you to make me magic too.”

               He feels himself recoil physically even as his eyes widen in shock. “What?” he demands, his left hand clenching in an automatic rush of power. “You don’t want me to-”

               “I do!” she interrupts. “I want it too. Once you find out how.”

               He shakes his head without conscious thought, clutching at the arm of the chair for support. Where had this _come_ from? “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says firmly.

               “I do,” she repeats. Her tone is insistent and cajoling. “It’s been getting more dangerous lately. You’ve seen how close the river patrols have come. If I had magic, they wouldn’t be able to catch me.”

               “You don’t need magic for that,” he protests. “Callista will keep you safe if there’s any true danger.”

               “And if she’s gone or busy?” Emily challenges, jaw jutting forward stubbornly.

               “Samuel,” Corvo fires back.

               “And if _he’s_ gone?”

               Corvo moves to name Piero or Sokolov or one of the Loyalists, but he can’t make himself complete the lie. He doesn’t trust any of them with Emily’s safety.

               Something like triumph flashes on Emily’s face at the hesitation. “I’ve seen how Havelock and Martin look at you when you’re not watching. What if they’re the ones I have to run _from_?”

               Shaking his head more firmly, he replies, “No. I won’t. If they do take you, I’ll bring you back. I’ve done it before.” When she looks ready to protest again, he cuts across. “ _No._ ” He flares the Mark bright with ethereal cyan and orange, seeing its light reflected in Emily’s dark eyes. “This isn’t some flashy toy, Emily. I can’t make it go away if I decide I don’t want it anymore. I will bear this for the rest of my _life._ ” He pauses, wondering if his next words are too harsh, but he plows forward regardless, not liking that stubborn look Emily is wearing. “All it takes is the wrong person to see this, just once, and all _this_ ,” he gestures around, encompassing the entirety of the monumental task he has set for himself, “will be for nothing. Because I’ll be executed, and you’ll be all alone with the people who killed-” His voice breaks, incapable of handling both the comparative overuse and the emotion swelling within him. Even after all this time, he still cannot say Jessamine’s name aloud. Not with the memories so fresh and visceral in his mind.

               Emily doesn’t give him the time to organize his thoughts. “So when I’m Empress, I’ll make it illegal to hurt us!” she proclaims, full of childish self-assurance. “And I’ll put everyone who tries in jail.”

               Something inside him is glad that she’s managed to keep her innocence, even through this whole mess, but mostly it’s just a confirmation that magic powers are the last thing she needs right now. “No, Emily,” he says, putting a little commanding steel in his voice. “I mean it. I’m done talking about this.”

               She pouts theatrically, jutting lower lip and all. “Fine,” she mutters mutinously. Her eyes flick to the side, and she adds lowly, “For now.” When she sees his scowl deepen, she rushes to change the subject. “So what’s for dinner?”

               In no means fooled by the blatant evasion, he stares her down for a long moment. She meets his gaze unflinchingly, and eventually he gives in with a sigh. “Boiled hagfish and bread, if I’m not mistaken.”

               She wrinkles her nose, but offers no complaint. She’s spent long enough under plague conditions to understand the value of any food she can get.

               Feeling as if he had lost the argument somehow, Corvo stands and moves into the kitchen, deciding to push the subject from his mind. As he sets a pot of water over the heat, he cuts off several slices of thick-crusted bread, wishing he had an actual bread knife to work with rather than the steak knife he’s currently wielding.

               He turns to the pre-tinned hagfish with a scowl. While it is perfectly edible, it is far from flavorful. He longs for seaweed, or lemon, or white wine, or even _rice_ , but this is all he has. After some rummaging in the cupboards, he _does_ find some pepper, which is as much as he can hope for, really.

               Lowering the fish into the pot, he wonders if there are any as-of-yet-unraided buildings nearby. Maybe he can go scrounging for supplies later, he decides, pouring some of the brine from the tin into the pot as well.

               After a few minutes, the white meat flakes easily away when he tests with a fork, and he deems that good enough. He divides the fillets onto two plates with several spoonfuls of salt-water broth each, with slices of bread off to the side. He pins forks to the plates with his thumbs and carries them both out into the living room and to Emily. She accepts it with a quiet, “thank you,” but otherwise says nothing.

               Dinner passes in silence. Without anything to occupy his mind, Corvo finds his thoughts turning back to the previous conversation. The thought of her skin branded with Marks of black magic makes something cold and sickly coil in his gut. Her life has already been thrown into complete turmoil; he doesn’t want to condemn her to secrecy and mistrust on top of that. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he spoke earlier – just one person seeing his hand at the wrong place and the wrong time would result in his capture by the Warfare Overseers, followed shortly by interrogation and execution.

               He shivers, again remembering stories of the screams of captured heretics. And they hadn’t even been Marked, as far as he knows. No, he can’t and won’t subject Emily to that. She deserves as much of a childhood as she can have, Empress-to-be and murdered mother notwithstanding.

               Mopping up the last of the broth with his bread, Corvo glances up at Emily. She’s staring out of the window, looking pensive and determined, and he knows he hasn’t heard the end of this matter.

               That worries him more than thoughts of the plague, the assassins, and breaking into Dunwall Tower all put together.

\-----

               Corvo wakes early the next day, nerves and his natural tendency toward insomnia tearing him from sleep far earlier than he would like. He gets dressed and washes his face, staring at the bags under his eyes in the mirror.

               He still has that overwhelmingly tired look, making him seem much older than he really is. He scrubs a palm irritably over his face, frowning.

               Deciding this endeavor is a waste of time, and still unwilling to wake Emily this early, he decides to take stock of their supplies. They’re down to three vials of Elixir and two of Remedy, with only half a loaf of bread and a jar of fig jelly left in terms of food. He’s also painfully low on sleep darts – the last one glows eerily green amid the numerous standard and incendiary bolts he has collected over the weeks.

               Maybe his musings on looting abandoned buildings hadn’t been so idle. At this rate he and Emily will run out of things altogether, making staying with the Loyalists at the pub their only option.

               He picks up two of Sokolov’s Elixirs and brings them out into the living room, considering Piero’s Remedy to be more valuable in a combat situation if these really are the last preventatives he has.

               He moves to the kitchen and takes the plates he had washed last night and sets to making breakfast. He cuts through the last of the bread, taking the heel for himself, and spreads an uneven layer of fig jelly with the steak knife. This he is sure to wash right away; to procrastinate on this is to invite flies, which are utterly unacceptable in times of plague.

               Unable to put it off anymore, he goes and knocks on the open door to Emily’s room. She still wakes more quickly than he would like, alert and tense, but settles at the sound of his voice calling for breakfast. She sits up, hair a tangled mess and shirt rumpled. With a yawn, she stands and follows him, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She smiles widely at the sight of the jelly, glad for the rare treat of fruit.

               They joy fades a bit when Corvo nudges a Health Elixir her direction. The concoction still tastes strongly of ash and bitter herbs, and leaves a terrible aftertaste.

               “What are you doing today?” Emily asks, wiping a little jelly off her lip with her thumb.

               Corvo grimaces. “Working with Sokolov and Piero, most likely,” he mutters, magic flaring mutinously on the back of his hand.

               Her face goes carefully and conspicuously blank, and she asks, “Can I come with you?”

               “I haven’t changed my mind,” he says, giving her a stern look.

               “I know! I know. But just… I’d like to spend some time with you.”

               This is manipulation. Corvo _knows_ this is manipulation, but he still sighs and says, “Fine.” He knows he’s giving in too easily, but the grin on her face warms something within him, and he can’t bring himself to take it away.

               After washing the plates and getting ready for the day, he blinks himself and Emily back down to the street, and they head toward the Hound Pits.

               They come up behind Cecelia while she is sweeping trash from the street in front of the pub. She startles at their approach, clutching tighter to her broom. “Oh, Mr. Corvo! I didn’t hear you come up the walk.”

               He smiles gently. “I tend to be quiet.”

               She doesn’t visibly react to the understatement, just nods and goes back to sweeping. Corvo leaves her be, one hand on Emily’s shoulder and heading to Piero’s workshop.

               The natural philosophers are bickering in one corner of the building, apparently over the contents of an open book in Sokolov’s hands. With a sense of resignation, Corvo knocks on the metal door, attracting their attention with the clang.

               “Ah, good. You’re here.” Sokolov sets the book down without a second thought, clasping his hands in front of him. “I’ve taken the liberty of telling our… hosts… that we are working on some experimental weaponry, and that we are not to be disturbed. If you’ll follow me?”

               And Sokolov walks right past him into the courtyard, not once looking back as if it is granted that they will follow him. Piero casts Corvo a commiserating look, but complies with the unspoken command regardless.

               They step into what must be the eponymous kennels of the Pits, a large, two story building with a barred-off space in the center. There are several unrecognized machines atop impromptu tables and empty hound crates, some whirring and lit with whale-oil power sources.

               It is at this point that Sokolov notices Emily. “What is she doing here?” he demands. “This is no place for a child.”

               Corvo’s hand tightens on her shoulder, Mark flaring cold in an instinctive show of power. “She stays with me,” he says. “She already knows.”

               Never mind that he doesn’t much want her involved with magic either. It’s the principle of the thing.

               Sokolov humphs. “Fine. But keep out of the way,” he directs to Emily. She nods, surprisingly non-confrontational, but maybe she doesn’t want to push her luck shortly after arguing with Corvo.

               While she goes to sit off on one side, Corvo suppresses a sigh and asks, “So what do you want me to do?”

               Sokolov’s eyes light with something near-manic. “Right then! First, tell me everything you have learned on your own. What can you do? How does it work?”

               “What do you want to know?” Corvo retorts. He may have agreed to this study, but he won’t willingly volunteer all his secrets. He must admit he is curious what a more regimented study of his powers will reveal in comparison to his fumbling, instinctual experiments, but that doesn’t mean he wants anyone else to have that knowledge too.

               One betrayal was enough to damage his ability to trust. He will not allow for a second.

               With a considering hum, Sokolov says, “Let’s begin with the Mark itself. I’ve seen it light- what causes it? Can you control it? What does it feel like?”

               Corvo reluctantly takes off his gloves and tucks them into a pocket. The Mark is as starkly black as ever, eerily so compared to the skin around it. He brushes over it lightly with the fingers of his other hand, and the barest shimmer follows along behind the pressure. Clearing his throat, he says, “It flares when I call on it.” He demonstrates with the clenching of his hand, displaying the silvery-blue to the onlookers. He decides not to mention the times the Mark had lit without his intervention, when he had felt the weight of the Outsider’s eyes on his back and his emotions in Corvo’s head.

               “It feels…” he continues. He flares the Mark again, trying to find the words for the crackle down his spine. “Cold,” he decides. “A bit like electricity. Slippery. Evasive.” He trails off, words failing him.

               “Good, good,” Sokolov murmurs. “Can you use it to light a dark room? See in the dark?”

               “I’ve never tried,” Corvo admits. Privately, he thinks Dark Vision is much more useful for that, but Sokolov doesn’t have to know that.

               “Perhaps we should test that later, yes? Now, how did you get the Mark in the first place?”

               They’ve finally come to the unspoken heart of the matter. Taking care to keep his expression neutral, he says, “I was in Coldridge. I went to sleep and dreamed of- I woke up with the Mark.”

               “Dreams?” Sokolov interjects. “Like Piero described? Blue light? Floating islands? A looming skeletal figure?”

               Piero looks deeply uncomfortable at having been mentioned, and he clears his throat and studiously avoids Emily’s suddenly-interested gaze.  Corvo ignores them too, shaking his head at Sokolov. “Blue, yes, but there were no islands, no skeleton.”

               “Then what did you _see_?” Sokolov pushes. “Describe it. As best as you can remember.”

               Corvo glances to the side. “It was places I had been before – the inauguration ballroom, the clock tower… broken into pieces and suspended over nothing. There was water rushing upward, fish swimming through the air. People, frozen, like statues. And quiet, distant whalesong.”

               “Were you alone?”

               Carefully concealing the twitch at the corner of his mouth, Corvo thinks, _You’re never alone in the Void_. But he has tired of this game, of Sokolov dodging around the questions he really wants to ask, so he says, “Not for long. I stepped onto the deck of a ship and heard someone call my name. When I turned, the Outsider was there.”

               He can _see_ the shiver in Sokolov’s shoulders at the name of the dark god. “What did he look like?” the natural philosopher whispers, eyes shining bright. “How did he appear to you?”

               Corvo cannot stop the small curve of his smile, but whether it is borne from the memory of his god’s taunting smirk, or from unkind pleasure at Sokolov’s loss in composure he does not know. “He was a young man. Pale skin, dark hair. Black eyes, like the stories. And shadows and starlight everywhere he moved, clinging to his limbs.”

               He can feel the quiet amazement from every corner of the room. A large part of him is uncomfortable with the scrutiny, so unfamiliar to him after a life of quiet guardianship from the shadows. But there is still a small bit of him that twists and curls to know that there are people that see the gift he has been given, people who understand its magnitude, and who feel that same cold wonder that clutches greedily at his ribs even now.

               Sokolov clears his throat loudly, breaking the silence with a near tangible shatter. “Yes, well. I would like to begin with quantifiable study of the Mark before venturing into any of your more… exotic capabilities.” He gestures to one of the machines tucked away in the edges of the room, continuing, “I believe we should start with spectrophotometry, to analyze _what_ , precisely, is given off when you call upon the Mark.”

               Corvo nods slowly. This seems tame enough, compared to some of his more irrational worries. He crosses the room, taking a seat atop an empty kennel at Sokolov’s dismissive wave, waiting for the natural philosopher to set up the machine.

               Piero approaches too, eyes directed at the matte black on Corvo’s skin. “In just the few times I have seen this activated,” he starts, “I have seen light in shades variably of white and gold and blue. Can you control the hue?”

               Blinking, Corvo looks down at his hand. He had never thought to even try. With a curl of his fingers, magic flares in his palm, lighting up in palest cyan. Without directing the power toward any specific ability, he tries to shift the shape of the magic where it sits electricity bright along his bones. There is a kind of rippling along the Mark, as if the water’s surface in a storm, but the color remains unchanged.

               “Apparently not,” he says, releasing the call for power with a quiet subsiding of whispers.

               Sokolov steps forward, holding some sort of device on a long cord. He depresses a button and the machine whirs into life, beeping and clicking into the quiet of the room. He brings the handheld device until it hovers over the back of Corvo’s hand, cord hanging limply and loosely. “Right. Activate the Mark.”

               Rolling his eyes behind closed lids at the demanding tone, Corvo complies, casting a small radius of blue light. The beeping clicks upward in speed and in volume, and a dial on the main body of the machine begins twitching and stuttering up a row of numbers.

               “Visible light spectrum, as anticipated,” Piero mutters, leaning over Sokolov’s shoulder and reading the output over the top of his glasses. “High in frequency- is that passing into ultraviolet?”

               “Indeed,” Sokolov replies. “Give me your other hand, Corvo.”

               Corvo complies, watching in bemusement as Sokolov compares the backs of his hands to one another, clicking his tongue. “No apparent increase in pigmentation. Perhaps it only emits UVB?”

               “That wouldn’t matter. Sufficient exposure would affect the melanin regardless,” Piero states, watching the dial shiver to a stop. “Settling in at 378 nanometers,” he mutters, patting his jacket as if looking for a notepad.

               Having watched the rapid-fire exchange like the ricocheting of a rogue bullet, Corvo finally asks, “What are you looking for?”

               “How the Mark came to be. What constitutes its makeup. Where the power comes from.” Sokolov pauses, shooting a glance toward Corvo out of the corner of his eye. “You never did say _how_ precisely you came by it.”

               Corvo blinks slowly, choosing his words carefully. “The Outsider reached for my hand, and when I touched his fingers, the Mark just… appeared.”

               Sokolov hums malcontentedly, shifting the angle of the device in his hand and causing a change in the pitch of the beeping. “Just appeared, he says,” he mutters under his breath, evidently unaware or uncaring that Corvo can hear him. With a shake of his head, continues in a louder volume, “How did you attract his attention in the first place?”

               Corvo cannot stop the derisive scoff that bursts out of him. Sokolov may as well ask him to swim to Pandyssia. How in the Void is he to predict the workings of the Outsider’s mind? “I have no idea,” he says honestly, flexing his fingers for the surge in magic.

               “No, no,” Sokolov says, with a gesture of his hand that stretches the beeping into an uneven squeal. “I mean what ritual did you use to summon him? What did you offer, what did you sacrifice?”

               Feeling his eyebrows draw together in genuine confusion, Corvo says, “I… didn’t.”

               Sokolov gives him a disbelieving look. “You must have done _something_. Blood, whalebones, runemarks, something to call him forth.”

               Corvo shakes his head. “But I didn’t. I went to sleep and he was there.” He pauses, thinking back to that cold night. He had done nothing different on that day compared to any other in the prison, and certainly nothing with the intention of drawing the interest of the _Outsider_. “I didn’t,” he repeats, more firmly. “ _He_ came to _me._ ”

               “And that, my dear, is what men like Sokolov will never understand.”

               Corvo freezes in place, muscles tensing, as he whirls in a cascade of loose hair to stare at a shadowed corner. The Outsider is perched delicately atop one of the larger kennels, legs crossed daintily one over the other and a smirk on his youthful face.

               “What? What is it?” Sokolov is demanding, but Corvo ignores him utterly, thoughts racing at the sight of the god without warning and so far from a shrine.

               With a tut, the Outsider shakes his head and rises from the kennel in one smooth motion, coming to a stop a good meter above the floor. “You have seen for yourself the way the Void makes mockery of your understanding of space and distance. Why should that be any different here?”

               Behind him, Corvo hears Piero swear and a toppling of something metal.

               He swallows, aware of the eyes still watching him. “What do you need of me?”

               The god does not reply for a long, still, moment, studying Corvo’s face with liquid black eyes. After a pause deep enough for Corvo to think he would not reply at all, the Outsider says, “A great many possibilities converge inexorably on this next week. The smallest choice will send futures spiraling into diverse possibilities, never again with the possibility of meeting. I have not seen such a split in the timeline in a great many years.” He pauses. “All of your choices will eventually lead back to me, in one way or another, whether at my shrines or at your death and absorption by the Void.” Here, his voice goes just slightly mischievous, and that thinnest smile pulls at the corners of his black eyes. He drifts closer, leaning forward against thin air as tendrils of darkness wisp off of his shoulders. “I merely chose to avoid some of the tedium, now that things are so close to being set irrevocably in motion.”

               This time, Corvo makes no attempt to keep the amusement from his voice as he says, “What happened to not interfering directly?”

               With a supercilious little flourish of his hand, the Outsider says, “I already said you would come to me, dear Corvo. It is not interference if it would happen anyway.”

               Wryly, Corvo thinks that that’s not quite how it works, but he says nothing. From the glint in the Outsider’s eyes, the god heard the comment anyway, and thinks it amusing.

               “Corvo!”

               Emily’s voice cuts through Corvo’s focus, and he finds himself turning to face her. He catches sight of Piero, who has gone white as whalebone, out of the corner of his eye.

               Emily approaches from her spot against the wall, her eyes flicking between Corvo’s face and a spot a few meters to the Outsider’s left. “Is… is he here?”

               The reminder of exactly _who_ composes their audience makes Corvo’s throat clench in sudden anxiety. He turns to look to the Outsider, whose expression is as close to outright glee as Corvo has ever seen. “What’s wrong? You were the one who chose to involve them.” He gestures, and the Mark flares magnesium-white and goes frigidly cold. Corvo does not let himself flinch or hiss in discomfort. The god continues, “It shouldn’t matter if I choose to speak to you in their presence.”

               Sokolov chooses this moment to exclaim loudly, “You are saying the Outsider is in this room?” He straightens up imperceptibly, his knuckles whitening around the device in his hand. “I have waited many years for this moment.”

               He pushes forward past Corvo, dropping the machine carelessly and facing the air vaguely in the Outsider’s direction. “I would speak to you, sir, if you would reveal yourself.”

               The god makes a face and drifts a bit further back and away, distancing himself from Sokolov’s line of sight. At the continued silence and evident lack of manifesting god of the oceans, Sokolov coughs and continues, “It matters not. I have long known what I would say to you, and knowing that you will hear is more than enough.” He pauses again, eyes gleaming maniacally bright. “I believe a partnership between the two of us would be mutually beneficial.”  
               The Outsider scoffs loudly, seemingly unable to help himself, but, as Sokolov cannot hear or perceive him, the philosopher rushes on. “I have studied your runes for many long decades. I have journeyed to the grand shrines of Pandyssia and the boneyards on the distant islands. I have-” he licks his lips. “I have offered many a sacrifice in your name and carved charms from the bones. I _understand_ your gifts in a way that few could ever claim! Imagine what I could accomplish with your power at my command!”

               Corvo, long forgotten, shifts uneasily. This is- he had never wanted to see this. That vicious piece of him that covets magic and the Outsider’s favor thinks the display pathetic, but the stronger and more empathetic part of him finds this whole scenario… desperately sad. Sokolov is pouring himself out in broad, sweeping statements, all self-assurance and bravado, but it only takes one look at the Outsider’s face to know that it is all for nothing. The god looks at Sokolov like a particularly disgusting dead bug, something to be scraped from the bottom of his shoe, to be forgotten and left behind with the rest of the filth and debris.

               And Sokolov has no clue, still speaking to the empty air nearly five meters from the Outsider’s true position. He reaches out a hand, expression still alight with fervor. “Think of a world where technology and magic blend together seamlessly, taking humanity to heights never yet _dreamed_ of! Together, we could conquer the dread continent of Pandyssia and bend the very sky to our will! With your power, I could end the antiquated Abbey of the Everyman and rebuild a religion in your name, giving you the honor you deserve. I could accomplish anything you ask of me. I could give you _anything you desire_ , if only you would just take my hand!”

               All at once, the Outsider snarls and rushes forward, form melting into unsteady wisps of shadow. He slashes wildly through the air, and his hands are suddenly claws, wicked and stained dark and dripping. He bares teeth suddenly dagger sharp and thin, glaring through eyes that have become truly gaping _Void_ , drawing the very light around them into their depths. “You have _nothing_ to offer me, you pathetic little man,” he spits, staring at the side of Sokolov’s head. “I have watched men thrice your worth beg and scrape for my favor, and never _once_ did I consider _debasing_ myself with their association. I would kill you myself for your arrogance if it would not give you the satisfaction of my presence.”

               Sokolov stands there, expression of hope unchanged, hand still stretched forward to a god that isn’t there.

               The Outsider subsides in one motion, melting into coiled darkness and reappearing next to Corvo in the space of a moment. “I tire of this nonsense,” he says, and his voice is as dark as the feral visage he had worn seconds ago. “But it remains imperative that I speak to you. Find me at a shrine, and I will-”

               An explosion rips through the air, shaking the earth with tremors that send everyone standing in the room to their knees. Five heads snap toward the east as a cloud of smoke bursts into the air visible through the high windows, clouding the evening sky and blotting out the stars.

               Without a second thought Corvo is scooping up Emily and blinking to the door, tensing and preparing to run. He can hear Sokolov and Piero scrambling to join him as he pushes open the door and rushes out onto the riverbank, looking toward the rising column of smoke. The Outsider manifests next to him a moment later, floating above the river with a hand on his chin. “Daud,” he murmurs, sounding surprised and amused.

               “What happened?” Corvo asks, clutching Emily closer to him protectively.

               “Things have just become much more interesting,” the god responds, and then he melts into curling tendrils and fades from view, leaving Corvo and Emily alone on the shore.

               The door to the Hound Pits Pub bangs open, and Martin, Havelock, Samuel, and the servants spill out onto the street. Sokolov and Piero finally catch up to them, watching the smoke with wide-open eyes.

               “That’s Rothwild’s place,” Sokolov exclaims. “The damned fool’s blown up his own slaughterhouse.”

               “A whaling slaughterhouse?” Piero asks, clutching at the side of his glasses and squinting into the distance.

               “Yes,” Sokolov replies. “I was studying the oil production there not three days ago.”

               The group from the pub joins them, all wearing various expressions of amazement. “That’ll surely draw the attention of the River Patrol,” Samuel says. “This place is soon to be crawling with boats.”

               “It’s good that we planned to lie low these next few days,” Martin muses. “We’ll have to be extra careful until the commotion dies down.”

               “Corvo?” Emily asks in a very small voice. “Can we go?” She looks shaken, face pale and shoulders trembling.

               “Of course,” he says, setting her down and taking her hand in his.

               Sokolov clears his throat, drawing attention to himself. “We’ll continue our discussion tomorrow, then?”

               Corvo eyes him, thinking of the one-sided conversation he had witnessed, and trying to judge if it changes anything between them. His secret is still uncomfortably precariously hidden, and he still needs to keep Sokolov appeased. Decision made, he nods once, eyes flicking to Piero. “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” he says, already leading Emily away from the Pub. No one attempts to stop him, eyes still on the smoke in the sky.

               Once they are out of sight and earshot, he stops, dropping to a knee and putting both hands on Emily’s shoulders. “Are you alright?” he asks.

               She nods, but still looks unsettled. “I’m fine,” she insists. “I’m just- Let’s just go home, okay, Corvo?”

               He nods back, standing up and privately wondering when she began referring to their hideaway as ‘home.’ They walk down the street, hearing the distant sounds of motorboats whizzing over the river, heading toward the source of the explosion.

               Corvo blinks the two of them up into the apartment, shutting the balcony door behind them. Emily lets out a shaky sigh, sinking unsteadily onto the couch. Watching this with a frown, he asks again, “You’re sure you’re alright?”

               “I’m fine,” she mutters again, sounding distracted. She looks up at him and touches the space beside her on the couch. “Will you- sit with me?”

               He complies immediately, sweeping her to his side with an arm around her shoulder. She squeezes him tightly, pressing her face into the side of his ribs. “Corvo,” she begins, hesitant and slow, “what happened?”

               “With the explosion?”

               He can feel her shake her head. “At the kennels. Was the Outsider really there?”

               He smooths a hand down her shoulder, pressing a kiss into her hair. “We can talk about it tomorrow,” he says, “when things have calmed down.”

               “But I-”

               “Tomorrow,” he insists.

               She falls quiet, still curled tightly into his side. After a long moment, she asks, “Will you stay here for a little while longer?”

               “Of course.”

               They remain motionless on the couch until Emily’s breathing evens and deepens and she falls asleep, tucked safely into the curve of Corvo’s arm. Unwilling to disturb her, he stays in place until he, too, falls asleep, even as the sounds of the gathering river patrols echo in through the window.

               They can figure things out tomorrow.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? A chapter? Surely there's been some mistake!
> 
> I apologize for the long waits, guys. At least this one's a bit longer than usual?
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your kind words and support for this story. It keeps me going.

               Corvo wakes early, jolting into awareness with tensed muscles and a gasp. He pushes through the sleep-fog muddling his brain to identify his surroundings and he relaxes, looking toward Emily with a smile on his face. In the night she has slumped downward, coming to rest with her head pillowed on his leg. Gingerly, Corvo tries to ease out from underneath her, one hand cupping the side of her head to keep her level. It is not meant to be, because as he scoots closer to his end of the sofa, the whole structure scrapes loudly across the floor with a shriek.

               Emily bolts up like she’s been shot, her hand clutching tight to his wrist. She blinks blearily for a moment, and smiles when she finally recognizes him. “Good morning, Corvo,” she says, stretching into a yawn.

               Sheepishly, he replies, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

               She waves a hand dismissively, still yawning too wide to properly speak.

               Corvo stands, and his bag settles heavily into place on his hip. He had fallen asleep fully clothed, boots, belt, and all, and his spine is already complaining at the treatment. He mutters, “I’ll be right back,’ to Emily, drops his bag, and heads into the bathroom.

               After relieving himself, he rebuckles his belt clumsily around the spikes of the bone charms. He pauses, and realizes that he’s missing one. He double-checks, running his fingers along the runes.

               The heart bursts into whispers again, just as it had the previous day, talking over and over itself in its strangely echoing voice. The volume and nearness of the sound catches him off-guard, and he actually stumbles a little in surprise. He had left the heart in his bag, out in the living room, hadn’t he?

               In a crackling rush, the weight of the heart settles into his hand, throbbing gently. He startles, hand spasming, spurring the voice into speech again. ‘ _The man who lived here fled when the rats first came. He died in Rudshore when the floodwall broke.’_

               Corvo stares down at the heart in his hand, eyes wide. What? How had-

               There is a knock on the door. “Are you done in there, Corvo?” Emily calls.

               He startles again, and the heart says, ‘ _A woman thought she could outrun the City Watch in the sewers. When the tide came in the hagfish tore her to pieces_.’

               He has nowhere to put the heart, he realizes with dismay. Emily has seen a lot, and he realizes she must know of the men he has killed, but that distant knowledge is a far cry from seeing her last true confidant clutching a _still-beating human heart_. If only he had somewhere to hide it-

               “Corvo?”

               He clears his throat, tucking the heart as inconspicuously as he can behind him. “Ah, yes, one second.”

               As children are wont to do, the second Corvo opens the door, Emily immediately spots what he’s hiding. Rather than reacting with fright or disgust as he had feared, she just raises her eyebrows. When he offers no explanation, she asks, “Why are you holding your hand like that?” She holds one of her own up to demonstrate, fingers curled and clawed.

               Corvo realizes all at once that she cannot see the heart. Testing the theory, he lets the heart rest uneasily at his side, in plain view. He gets no response, so he mutters, “It’s nothing.”

               She still eyes him strangely, but doesn’t bring it up further. He steps past her into the hallway, hearing the door click shut behind him.

               Unsettled, he goes back to the couch and to his bag. It had spilled open when he had dropped it, and several coins have scattered loose across the floor. He crouches and scoops them back up, taking the opportunity to look for the lost bone charm that had inspired the strangeness with the heart in the first place. He finds it on the sofa cushion, where Emily had been sitting moments before.

               Frowning, he clips it back onto his belt to the sound of the heart murmuring ‘ _-carved in secret_ …’ He frowns down at the heart, too. So- It can’t be seen? At least, not by Emily. It is not that surprising, when he stops to think about it. It _is_ a gift of the Outsider.

               Also worth considering is the way it had warped right into his hand. Is it somehow summonable and dismissible, or something like that?

               Experimentally, he looks at the heart in his hand and focuses on sending it away. With a look and sound very similar to the Outsider’s own disappearances, the heart melts away into nothing.

               He is surprised that it actually worked. Curious, he looks into his bag, wondering if he had simply returned it to the place it had been before it had jumped to his hand in the bathroom. But it’s not there. It seems to have gone somewhere else entirely.

               He conjures and banishes it a few times, just to see if he can. He supposes it makes a certain amount of sense. This way, there is no chance of someone ever stealing the heart. Given how jealously the Outsider guards his secrets, a mundane, physical object did seem a little unfitting.

               On the topic of the Outsider, Corvo is quite surprised that he had not been pulled into the Void in his sleep. The god had made it quite clear that he had something to say. Maybe he is busy with whoever had caused the explosion the other day. Daud, whoever that is. From the look in the god’s eyes when he said the name, Daud is another Marked, like Granny Rags.

               Corvo wonders if it is common to have so many Marked in such a small area, or if it is simply a sign of how chaotic things have gotten in recent months.

               Emily comes out of the bathroom, face still damp from washing. She takes the vial of Remedy when he offers it, draining it completely before he even manages to open his own. Wiping her mouth, she asks, “What’s for breakfast?”

               With a wry slant to his mouth, he says, “Unless you want nothing but spoonfuls of jelly, we’ll have to beg it off of Lydia. I’ll go looking for supplies later.”

               Her eyes light up. “Why don’t we go now?”

               Corvo raises an eyebrow. “ _We_?” he asks, emphasizing her rather presumptuous word choice.

               She grins brightly. “The two of us can carry more than you could alone,” she cajoles. “Let me come with you!”

               He looks at her consideringly. Emily has always been an adventurous child, much to the consternation of her nannies and caretakers back at Dunwall Tower. She probably feels cooped up, shepherded between this room and Callista’s. This district _is_ abandoned, he reasons. No City Watch, no Overseers, and those that had caught the plague here are long dead by now. This might be the safest, most controlled way to burn off some of her restless energy.

               And who knows, perhaps a small adventure will turn her thoughts away from seeking witchcraft.

               So he hides a smile and muses, “We’ll have to skip breakfast,” watching the way it makes her grin spread wider.

               “You won’t regret this!” she promises, bouncing in place on the balls of her feet.

               Smiling at her enthusiasm, Corvo refastens his bag over his shoulder and puts his gun and sword in place on his chest and in his pocket respectively.

               When they go out onto the balcony, he stops her from climbing into his arms like usual. “If you think you can hold on, I can move faster with you on my back.”

               She climbs on without hesitation, still practically vibrating with energy. After hiking her legs up a bit higher around his waist, he turns upward and blinks onto the roof. He smiles at her surprised gasp in his ear. “Where to?” he asks, the spread of the entire district underneath them.

               Delight in her voice, she declares, “That way!” freeing one arm and pointing.

               He can’t run with her on his back, not if he wants to be sure of his footing or to have any strength left in his legs after five minutes, but because he took to the roofs, he can blink repeatedly across the gaps over the streets. Wary though he is to feed Emily’s hunger for magic, he cannot deny the rush he gets from sailing effortlessly high above the ground. It can’t do too much harm to indulge in a little fun, not if it brings a smile back to Emily’s face.

               Once they are a good distance from the apartment, Corvo stops and casts Dark Vision, looking down through the rooftops for flashes of green. It doesn’t take long to find a suitable building, and he drops them down lightly onto a balcony. The door is locked, so he continues down to street level, setting Emily on her feet to walk by herself.

               She looks up at him curiously. “How did you pick this building?”

               He pauses. Emily knows of his magic anyway, and he doesn’t like lying to her, so he admits, “I can see food and elixir and things.” He recasts Dark Vision, trying to find a way to describe it that makes any sort of sense.

               “Your eyes!” she gasps.

               His hand snaps up reflexively, fingertips hovering uncertainly over his cheek. “What is it?” He can barely see her expression through the uniform yellows of the spell, so he dismisses it. She looks alarmed.

               Hesitantly, she bites her lip. “They were- all black. Like…”

               _Like the Outsider_ , Corvo finishes. He frowns. Here is another sign that casting is not as inconspicuous as he had hoped. That’s something else to remember.

               He does not let himself think too hard on any significance held in the _way_ his casting manifests. He has neither the time, nor truly the energy to fight through that right now.

               Emily lets the uneasy moment pass by with a visible shake of her head, apparently too distracted by the chance to explore.

               The front door of the building is already ajar, a nearby window broken open as the apparent method of entry for the previous looters. Corvo directs Emily forward around the shattered glass with a sweep of the hand. Though the sun is bright in the sky, the inside of the building is rather dim. Drawers and shelves have been toppled, evidently in the search for valuables, but there is still a concentration of green in a room off to the side. He leads the way into it.

               The thieves evidently didn’t care about food, since there are several untouched cans in the open pantry. There are the now painfully familiar tins of whale meat, but also several canned vegetables and a canister of jellied eels. One can of green beans has bloated unpleasantly, but the rest Corvo sweeps into his bag, adjusting for the additional weight.

               Emily is poking around the spice cabinet, so Corvo surreptitiously conjures the heart and scans for magical artifacts. There’s nothing close enough to be in the same building, but there are a few spots that make the heart glow and thump steadily.

               When Emily returns with a handful of spice jars, he dismisses the heart and says, “We should try and find some fruit, too.” He thinks to his trip around the Isles, and the near-religious use of citrus once every few days. Scurvy can kill just as easily as the plague.

               They go back out onto the street. He doesn’t bother going back up to the rooftops. They can’t go as quickly if they’re searching the buildings, and anyway, there are no guards to avoid. The few rats he can see are in groups of two and three, not the all-devouring swarms like on Kaldwin’s Bridge. This is perhaps the safest and most relaxed he has felt in a long time. It eases some coiled tension from its place in his ribcage, and he lets himself breathe out in a noisy rush of sound.

               The noise doesn’t stop even when he stops to inhale, and he pauses, cocking his head toward the sound. It’s faint, and rather distant, but it sounds like the crackling hiss of a rune. A quick check with the heart confirms it. He reaches out to stop Emily’s progression with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “This one,” he mutters, gesturing her inside the building- another apartment.

               She looks at him in confusion when he walks right past the kitchen, startling a pair of rats into frenzied squeaks. “Where are you going?”

               “There’s magic up here,” he replies, climbing the stairs. He is thwarted from reaching the rune by a solidly locked door. A scan with Dark Vision yields no immediately obvious keys, and he frowns, tugging on the door handle again. He could check around the outside of the building for balconies or windows, but if there are none, or if they are sealed too…

               Well. He has yet to use that wind-manipulation power. Perhaps, if he can make it strong enough, he can break through the door.

               “Stand back,” he cautions, taking a few steps back himself. When he sees that Emily has retreated a little ways down the stairs, he takes a steadier stance and calls up the magic. Immediately, it feels different from the other, more familiar bits of magic. He could call up and hold a blink or a possession indefinitely, but the feel of the wind is much more shifting and intangible. Already, in the span of a second, he feels his grasp on the magic fading. He throws his palm outward as soon as he realizes it, not too keen on having the magic explode in his face.

               The first attempt does little more than kick up the dust that had settled across the floor, which soon begins to sting Corvo’s eyes and irritate his throat. Suppressing a sneeze, he tries again, immediately flinging the magic as soon as it is called up, and the door shudders violently on its hinges. One more cast, and it shatters away from the doorjamb, falling in large and broken bits to the floor.

               “Cool!” Emily exclaims, climbing back up to the landing. “How long have you been able to do that?”

               “Just today, actually,” he responds, already distracted. He heads toward the sound of the rune, head cocked a little to the side to better pinpoint the noise. The room is a study, left untouched thanks to the sturdiness of the door. Dark Vision lights up the place in patches of green, on the desk, in the cushions of the couch, and in a large wall safe. He looks at and through it speculatively. If he’s not mistaken, he can see the trapezoidal shapes of metal ingots of some kind. Though they would undoubtedly be heavy, they would also be extremely valuable.

               Piero has already offered him ammunition in return for the supplies he scavenges, if he recalls correctly. Maybe they can stretch the exchange to include Remedy and Elixir, too. Now that he thinks about it, he probably has quite the collection of loose coins already. He might have a decent sum saved away. It’s not like he can use it himself, most wanted man in the Empire and all.

               Decided, Corvo starts toward the desk to look for the combination. He’s just lifting the false bottom to a drawer and taking the rune hidden beneath when Emily finally turns away from her study of the fragments of the door. When she sees him slide it into his bag almost as an afterthought, she asks, “What are you looking for now?”

               “Safe combination,” he responds. “Help me look?”

               She creeps forward, seeming interested. “Where would it be?”

               “Look for notes on the margins, or papers that seem out of place.” He drops a book carelessly to the floor, reaching for the next.

               Most of the books and papers are useless to their quest. There are several receipts from local stores, a few cargo manifests, and a couple-dozen legal documents, all left behind when the plague swept through. The search is methodical and unconcerned, the two of them convinced of the relative safety of this room.

               After a few more moments of shuffling, Emily makes a noise of triumph. He looks up at her as she asks, “Is this it?”

               He takes the paper she offers, skimming over the contents. It’s another receipt, detailing a trip to a nearby market. The final amount is circled boldly in red ink- three digits.

               “Worth a try.” With a smirk, he asks, “Would you like the honors?”

               She grins right back, reclaiming the paper. With a bounce in her step, she goes to the safe and spins the dials one by one. There is a faint click, and then the heavy safe door swings open.

               “Nice job!” he exclaims, reaching out and ruffling her hair. It never occurs to him to feel guilty that he is expanding her criminal repertoire beyond simple breaking and entering into premeditated thievery. They have done – and perhaps still will do – far worse before this fiasco is over. All that matters to him is keeping her safe and happy, no matter what must be done to achieve it.

               Emily picks up the ingots. They appear to be gold in color, but whether that’s what they are in substance is another thing altogether. “Heavy,” she exclaims, sounding surprised.

               “Metals tend to be.” He takes them from her and puts them in his bag underneath the cans, readjusting the strap so it doesn’t cut into his shoulder as badly. “Come on. I want to find some apples at _least_.”

               As they are heading back downstairs, Emily suddenly bursts, as if afraid she will lose her nerve, “Can I ask you some questions?”

               He tenses, and his first instinct is to reply, ‘About what?’ but the Outsider’s appearance on the previous day weighs heavy on his thoughts as well. So, too, does her demand for magic of her own, and he’s sure she still has more to say about it. So he just sighs, braces himself, and asks, “What do you want to know?”

               “Was- was _he_ really there yesterday?”

               Avoiding her searching gaze, he nods.

               “What did he want?”

               He swallows. After so long fighting to keep the Outsider a secret, talking openly about him seems somehow… wrong. Perhaps even sacrilegious. But still, unwilling to lie to the girl so near and dear to his heart, he answers, “He said he needed to talk to me.”

               “About what?” she presses.

               “He couldn’t say. Sokolov and the explosion interrupted.”

               She goes quiet long enough for them to return to the street, evidently mulling over his responses. As Corvo leads them into another building with several promisingly green silhouettes, she eventually asks. “You need to talk to him today?”

               “I do,” he replies, struggling to keep his voice even. “It sounded important.”

               She bites her lip. “Do we need to be looking for shrines, too?”

               He pauses in pulling open cabinets to look down at her face. Her expression is a mix of earnest and hesitant that makes him uncomfortable to look on. Carefully, he reminds her, “You don’t have to be there if you don’t want-”

               “I _do_ want to, thought,” she interrupts. Then she looks immediately to the side, and he realizes she’s said more than she meant to.

               So he frowns, looking into her eyes, and he watches as she shrinks away from his inspection. Voice slow and displeased, he asks, “Is this about wanting magic?”

               “No,” she immediately blurts. But she sees his frown morph into a full-on scowl, and she reneges. “Alright, it sort of is. But I wasn’t-”

               “We _talked_ about this,” Corvo cuts across, disappointed to have his suspicions confirmed. “I am _not_ condemning you to a life of fear.”

               “It won’t happen!” she pushes. “They won’t find out!”

               He turns back to the cupboard, pushing aside fouled canisters of fish and whale. “Emily, you are going to be _Empress_. There is not a single person in the entire Empire who will be under more scrutiny. They will find out, and they will _hurt_ you for it.”

               She reaches out and grabs his arm, making him look at her straight on. Her eyes are alarmingly dark and serious. She licks her lips, and finally pronounces, “So we make them afraid instead. Make it so they would never dare hurt us.”

               Corvo’s heart drops out beneath him. She’s not- she didn’t- He drops to his knees, hands rising uncertainly to her shoulders. “Emily. You can’t- You can’t start thinking that way.” She watches him blankly, evidently unable to see what she has said that is so unreasonable. So he tries again. “If you start trying to hurt people just because they might hurt you, you’re letting- that’s. That’s letting darkness and fear taint your heart. That’s-” His voice does not break so much as shatter, going hoarse and weak in the face of his emotion. On the tail end of a shuddering breath, he finishes, “That’s letting the people who murdered Jessamine _win_.”

               She looks at him, and he can see her harsh expression starting to waver. She wipes a tear from her cheek with an abrupt gesture. “ _You’re_ hurting people,” she accuses. “I know you killed Campbell. And sometimes when you come home your sword is still bloody. How is that any different?”

               He has to let go of her so he doesn’t hurt her. As it is, his nails dig into his palm so hard he feels skin break. Struggling to articulate the whirling maelstrom inside him, he replies, “Emily, my job has always been to hurt people. A Royal Protector’s duty is to protect the Empress at all costs. At _all_ costs. I’ve been killing people long before I ever went to prison. And- and even after all that- I _failed_ her, Emily.” He has to look away, tears welling in his own eyes too. “I couldn’t save her, and I will damn myself to the _Void_ before I let her killers walk free.” He sees the Mark, dark on his skin, and he gives an ugly little laugh. “My oath is just more literal than most.”

               Emily rubs at her eyes again, face gone red and splotchy. “I don’t want to be scared anymore, Corvo,” she says, and just like that she breaks into body-wracking sobs.

               He sweeps her into his arms in a crushing hug at once. “Oh Emily. Emily. It’s going to be okay. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

               She can’t stop crying long enough to respond, just winding her fingers tight into his jacket and pressing her face into his shoulder. So he doesn’t say anything either, simply holding her tight, one hand slipping into her hair. He holds her as she cries and feels his own tears spill over, sitting on the dirty floor of someone’s abandoned kitchen, detritus and trash scattered all around them.

               It takes her a long, long time to stop crying. She trails off with stuttering and hiccupping gasps, fighting to take in a full lungful of air. Corvo lets her lean backward, watching her scrub furiously at the tears on her face. He catches her wrist, gently pulling it aside and drying her face softly with the side of his thumb. “Are you alright?” he asks quietly, unwilling to break the fragile atmosphere with too loud a voice.

               “I’m fine,” she replies, equally quiet. “Are _you_?”

               He smiles, but there is no joy in it. “I will be.”

               In one motion, Corvo stands, offering a hand to help Emily to her feet too. As she takes it, he asks, “Do you want to stay out here a little longer? Or would you prefer to head back?”

               She shakes her head. “Let’s keep looking for a while.” With a watery smile, she says, “You mentioned something about apples, after all.”

               They walk farther out into the district, letting silence fall quiet and thoughtful between them.

\-----

               In the end, they never do find any fruit. Any that had been left out in bowls or on counters is rotted utterly through, and any cans had either been taken by evacuees or looters. The only consolation is a bag nearly full with about five kilograms of rice. It had been on a high shelf behind a closed door, and therefore was saved from the ravening hungers of the rats, and from damp molds and mildews blowing in off the river.

               It’s such a great find that Corvo turns them homeward at once, making Emily carry the unwieldy bag of rice as her promised assistance. The trip is much longer and slower on the ground rather than on the rooftops, and Emily begins to complain barely fifteen minutes into it, dragging her feet and trying to make him carry it for her.

               Contrarily, this makes Corvo smile. He still feels personally wrung out by their emotionally explosive conversation, but if Emily feels well enough to whine again, then she’ll be fine.

               The direction of his thoughts makes him close his eyes mid-step and take a long, steadying breath. There are still unanswered questions, unaddressed concerns and problems in the air between himself and Emily. He wants answers, desperately, but the last thing he wants to do is make her cry again.

               His mouth twists indecisively. Is it better to force her to think about painful things, or to let her continue on her own?

               He doesn’t know. Unless something comes along to force his hand, he thinks he’ll leave her be. He’s too unwilling to shift the uneasy balance between them if he doesn’t have to.

               They make it back to their apartment, and Corvo has to pick Emily up awkwardly under the knees and at the waist to blink up to the balcony. Though their second-floor location ensures the rats can’t get in easily, it does cause quite a bit of inconvenience for _them_ , too.

               He sets about putting their scavenged food away, watching Emily push the bag of rice up onto the counter with a bit of difficulty. It’s not so much heavy as it is unwieldy, and she still hasn’t grown into her limbs.

               Now that they have nothing to do, Corvo’s hunger asserts itself with a vengeance. Through his prison sentence, he had grown accustomed to existence on very little food, but he hadn’t been gallivanting across the streets with two dozen kilograms weighing heavily on his shoulder. As he is rotating it to try and ease the soreness, his stomach growls loudly, and he hears Emily try and stifle a snicker.

               “Hungry, Corvo?”

               “I bet you are too,” he retorts playfully, adjusting his bag’s shoulder strap yet again. “Come on. Let’s go see if Lydia wouldn’t mind a couple of extra mouths at lunch.”

               As they drop back down to street level, Emily asks, “Are you going to Sokolov again today?”

               He makes a face at the reminder. He certainly doesn’t want to. But… “I did say I would.”

               “Can I come?”

               He sets her on her feet and gives her a stern look. “Even _if_ everything hadn’t gone wrong yesterday, I’d still say no. Callista’s lessons are important.”

               “But why?” she immediately protests, dragging out the sound of the last word. “They’re so boring. Magic is about a hundred times more interesting!”

               ‘ _That’s what I’m worried about,’_ Corvo thinks darkly. But he says nothing, and instead reaches out to muss her hair. “You need to go to lessons, Emily,” he says firmly, smiling at how she tries to duck under his hand.

               They come into the Hound Pits Pub, startling Lydia behind the counter. “Hello! Did you two come for lunch?”

               Corvo smiles gratefully at her. “If you have enough to spare for us.”

               She waves a hand dismissively, already pulling ingredients out of the cabinets. “Oh, please. Between Piero, Samuel, and Martin, we’re about as well-fed as the aristocrats. Seared eel and veggies okay?”

               “Sounds wonderful,” he replies, sitting down with Emily at the counter. “How have things been around here?”

               “Quiet, mostly.” She pours a measure of oil into a pan, setting some eel fillets down too shortly after. “Sokolov and Piero are bickering off and on, but they seem to work together well enough. There haven’t been any explosions yet, at least.”

               Corvo smiles a little at the thought. “Callista told me explosions used to be common around here?”

               “Oh yes,” Lydia replies with a laugh. “Wasn’t a week that went by without Piero stumbling in here with ash on his face.” Her face twists into a mock-thoughtful smile, her eyes twinkling with humor. “He never _did_ say what he was trying to do.”

               “Is there any other news? Any announcements we might have missed, any change in plans?”

               Lydia glances over her shoulder with one eyebrow raised. “The only thing that comes to mind is Martin’s promotion. Did you hear about that?”

               He glances at Emily, who looks just as surprised as him. “No, we haven’t.”

               “Yes, well,” she continues, scattering some kind of spice across the eel, “What with Campbell being… gone, there was a vacancy for High Overseer.”

               “He’s High Overseer?” Corvo demands, feeling his eyes going wide.

               Lydia just nods. “That he is. So he’s been awfully busy lately, and he’s barely ever here at the Hound Pits. Says he’s trying to weed out the corruption Campbell left behind.”

               Though this is nominally good news for the Loyalist Conspiracy, Corvo feels nothing but unease. Martin has always rubbed him slightly the wrong way, with his too-suspicious glances and his somewhat condescending commands. Some part of him is afraid that Martin already suspects his heresy. Having someone that might know his magic in charge of the very organization that could put him to death for it is… discomfiting, to say the least.

               He’s pulled from his thoughts as Lydia announces, “Done!” With a flourish, she slides two plates in front of them, already heading back for glasses of water. “Enjoy! Let me know if you need anything else, alright?”

               “Thank you,” Corvo says, already stabbing a stalk of broccoli. Now that he thinks about it, some vegetables prevent scurvy too. He’ll have to double-check the labels of what they found, maybe the manufacturer had mentioned something there.

               The food is easily the best he’s had in weeks. The simple inclusion of the oil and spices Lydia had used on the eel brings out a depth of flavor he hadn’t realized he was missing. Emily seems to be of the same opinion, given how quickly her fork is vanishing into her mouth.

               Eventually the food is gone and the plates are scraped clean. Corvo murmurs, “Thank you, Lydia,” and Emily hurries to repeat it.

               Lydia smiles over her shoulder from her place at the sink. “Any time.”

               He stands and stretches, letting his back pop. With one hand he gestures Emily in front of him, heading toward Piero’s workshop and therefore Callista’s tower.

               Sokolov and Piero look up from a conversation at their approach. “Good,” Sokolov declares, rubbing his hands together. “You’re finally here.”

               “One moment,” Corvo interrupts before he can build up a head of steam, digging in his bag. He sets the possibly-gold ingots on the table with a solid thunk.

               Piero’s eyes get wide behind the lenses of his glasses. As he moves to pick up and inspect the metal, Corvo asks, “Do either of you have access to your plague remedies? I’ve been running low.”

               Sokolov harrumphs. “Considering I have been kidnapped in the eyes of the law, I think not.”

               “I do,” Piero interjects before Corvo can respond. “I provide preventative for the entire conspiracy, and keep some extra for my own study.” After a moment’s deliberation, he glances at Sokolov over the top of his glasses. “If you would like, I could potentially pass along a request if you would prefer doses of your own elixir. I would just need to know who I should be contacting.”

               Sokolov is already shaking his head before Piero finishes speaking. “Any mention of me will surely draw Hiram’s attention. We cannot afford the scrutiny.”

               Piero sets the gold down and turns back to Corvo. “If I recall correctly, I do have a few extra doses in storage if you need them immediately. I could also increase my weekly order if you think you will continue to need them?”

               “Please do,” Corvo replies. That’s one worry absolved. “Additionally, I was wondering if you have any more sleep darts. They’ve been invaluable.”

               Piero lights up. “I thought you would never ask.”

               He leads them to the large shelf along the wall. Tucked into several of the small cubicles are bundles of crossbow darts, some fitted with green tubes of hemlock, some sleek and solid. There are more unrecognizable coils of leather and metal, and the familiar shape of crystal and hemlock phials he himself had delivered the previous day.

               Rather than reaching for the darts as Corvo had expected, Piero picks up the curl of leather instead. He shakes it open, presenting it with a smile in his eyes. It’s a bandolier, covered in pockets and loops, with the familiar slot for a gun front and center. “I know you do already have a harness, but if I’m not mistaken, you have nowhere to store extra ammunition. This,” he says, with another little shake of the leather, “seemed the most prudent solution.”

               “Thank you,” Corvo replies, reaching forward and taking the offering, weighing it in his hands. It’s lighter than the harness, just a little, but clearly has more room and utility. Without hesitation, he unclips the harness from around his torso, carefully setting his gun down into a cubicle, and pulls the bandolier over his head. He twists from side to side, bends forward and arches back, testing his range of motion. He is unhindered, even when he clips the gun back into place. “Thank you,” he says, when he becomes aware of the expectant silence and the eyes on him. “This will be useful.”

               Piero nods sharply, light glinting off of his glasses. “Good. I have a few hemlock darts already prepared, if you would like them?” At Corvo’s questioning glance toward the shelf, he says, “The ones there are of the old formula. I have yet to update them to the new standard.”

               So Corvo nods, and accepts a select few bundles of darts chosen by Piero according to no pattern he can see. He tucks them away into pouches along the bandolier, pleased at how easily they fit. Though he hadn’t thought of it until now, he really is quite lucky that he hadn’t stabbed himself fumbling for darts amid the chaotic mess in his bag.

               He moves to dump out his bag and gather up the remaining loose ammunition and crinkles the edge of a paper. Taking it out, he reads, ‘Folded Galvani Resin’ across the top, and remembers picking it up on the way to Sokolov’s house. With a mental shrug to himself, he hands it to the natural philosophers, figuring they would find more use for it than he would.

               Sokolov lets out a little exclamation of surprise. “Where on earth did you find this?”

               “In a warehouse on Kaldwin’s Bridge,” he replies simply, slotting the standard and incendiary darts into separate pouches. He pauses, for a moment, and thinks of his belt gone crowded with heretical bone. He certainly has the room across his chest, now, though it means displaying the charms out in the open. It doesn’t matter, he eventually decides. Ease of movement is pretty vital when he’s sneaking around the city.

               As the natural philosophers begin discussing potential uses for the resin, Corvo turns to Emily. He motions upstairs with his chin. “To Callista’s, Emily,” he commands.

               She looks ready to pout and complain, but he shakes his head before she can even begin. “Upstairs. I mean it.”

               She frowns hugely and theatrically, but slinks away upstairs, closing the door to Piero’s workshop behind her with a heavier-than-necessary slam.

               Sokolov looks up from his conversation at the noise. “Right,” he mutters to himself, setting the blueprint down on a nearby table. “Well then, shall we?” he asks, gesturing toward open door.

               The three of them cross the dirt and into the kennels in silence. Corvo looks around to see more machinery cast around near-haphazardly, still atop empty kennels and glowing with faint whale-oil light.

               “Right,” Sokolov repeats, clasping his hands together as the door shuts solidly behind him. “We were… interrupted yesterday, before we could truly begin.” He pauses, and Corvo wonders if he’s going to ask about the Outsider again. But he doesn’t seem to work up the courage, and the look in his eyes shifts. “So, I thought today we would begin with that teleportation skill you demonstrated.”

               Corvo flexes his hand almost subconsciously, watching the reflection of the flaring light in Sokolov’s dark eyes. Quietly, he asks, “What do you want me to do?”

               “I want to know the limitations: how far can you go, can you move upward, must you see your destination, can you be stopped en route, and many other such questions. Once I ascertain _what_ you can do, I would like to study _how_ you can do it.” He pauses, a moue of distaste forming beneath his beard. “As well as can be done with such… sub-standard facilities.”

               In the background, unseen, Piero scowls down at the ‘sub-standard’ spectrometer Sokolov had been so willing to use yesterday, and rolls his eyes. Corvo suppresses a smirk.

               Unaware of the exchange, Sokolov continues, “I think we should begin with simple distance, as that seems most easily quantifiable.”

               Corvo glances dubiously from one wall to another. “… There isn’t enough room.”

               Sokolov follows his line of sight, taking in the dozen-odd meters. “You can span that distance?”

               “Easily,” Corvo replies. Demonstratively, he moves and presses his back against the wall by the door. With a clench of his hand and a flicker of magic, he is at the other wall, stumbling a bit to keep himself upright when he finds himself suddenly an inch from solid concrete. He breathes out as the unreality fades, finding his feet again and turning to face the others.

               Piero’s eyebrows have migrated up toward his hairline, but Sokolov’s expression has just gone focused. “What is the farthest you have gone?”

               He thinks of the running leap in the Estate District, estimating the distance in his head. “Twenty-five meters, I think.”

               Sokolov makes a small considering noise, one hand coming up absentmindedly to stroke his beard. “I am not familiar enough with this district to suggest a large enough building. I assume you would not allow these sessions to move out to the streets?”

               Corvo says nothing, letting the unimpressed line of his mouth express his opinion.

               “I thought not,” Sokolov continues, unconcerned. “So rather than what distance you can achieve, we will instead focus on mechanics.”

               With that, Corvo is swept into a flurry of motion faster than he can comprehend. Sokolov starts him on going through the motions of the blink in exaggerated slowness, with and without magic. Piero turns on the spectrometer and starts scanning the air around the Mark, scribbling down notes and beginning a rapid-fire, fragmentary conversation with Sokolov. Bemused and unable to keep up, Corvo passively follows their commands, flexing his hand and calling up the magic over and over.

               Once they are evidently satisfied with this, they begin creating obstacles for him. They start with directing him to blink into the hound-fighting pit in the center of the room, past the bars meant to trap the beasts inside. He can’t. Whenever he tries, he cannot direct the column of light through the gaps, and trying to blink anyway nearly slams him into the bars, tripping over his momentum again.

               “No?” Sokolov asks.

               He just shakes his head. Mildly curious, he calls up the magic again and parades the light around the two natural philosophers. Sokolov does not react, as expected, but neither does Piero. Since Piero must have sensed the Outsider’s presence in _some_ way yesterday, what with how pale and alarmed he had looked, this is somewhat surprising.

               “Hmm,” Sokolov murmurs, unaware of Corvo’s private experiment. “But you could get inside if the you were standing in front of the door?”

               “Of course.”

               They make him test it anyway, popping back and forth through the open door several times at several distances. Apparently, they want to make sure the lack of vertical space does not impede the magic from any direction.

               While Corvo does his best to stop himself from rolling his eyes as Sokolov demands he blink yet again, Piero frowns deeply. In a pause while Corvo waits for sound and speed to return to the world after a blink, he eventually asks, “Are you limited to linear movement?” At Corvo’s questioning eyebrow lift, he elaborates, “Can you move around corners, for example?”

               The thought had never occurred to him. At Sokolov’s sweeping gesture, he walks to the outside corner of the cage, just out of direct view of the open door. The first blink he tries nearly crashes into the bars in front of him, and he has to throw his hands up and catch himself. When his second attempt is just more of the same, he pauses to think it through. He _knows_ he can get into the cage. All it takes is walking through the door. The range of his blink is much, much longer than the distance it would take. He should be able to do it, and easily. If he can just- _turn_ somehow- it’s _magic_ , why wouldn’t he be able to-

               He blinks, and he is inside the cage.

               “Good!” Sokolov bursts, shaking Corvo from his surprise. “Very good! Can you do it again?”

               He manages it a few more times, with some stumbling, before he tries to call up the magic and gets nothing but a weak pulse from the Mark. This surprises him so much that he stops and stares for a moment. Blinking has been effortless, like Dark Vision, without the draining headaches any other magic causes.

               “What’s the matter?” Sokolov demands when the silence stretches just a moment too long.

               “It’s more than I expected,” Corvo admits, letting his hand fall limply to his side. “Do you have any Spiritual Remedy in here?”

               Piero’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “My Remedy? Whatever do you need it for?”

               “If you want this to continue today, I’ll need access to more magic.”

               Sokolov leans forward across Piero’s building confusion, an interested look in his eye. “You used a Remedy for this purpose before, near my estate on Kaldwin’s Bridge. How does it work, precisely?”

               “It replenishes, somehow. Refills.” When they just stare at him in expectant silence, he sighs and tries to elaborate. “At a certain point some of the harder…” He casts about for a word, but only one comes to mind. He makes a face, and reluctantly says, “the harder spells become impossible.” He tries to blink around the corner again, demonstrating the pale cloud rising off of the Mark and the blatant lack of teleportation. “I don’t know _how_ it works, just that it does.”

               “Well,” Piero says, preventing Sokolov from starting in on more questions, “I do not have any Remedy here, but I certainly have some in the workshop. Shall we retrieve some?”

               Corvo turns to make a ‘lead the way’ sort of gesture when he catches sight of the door closing quietly. At once, his heart in his throat, he croaks, “One moment,” and uses a normal, effortless blink right into the doorway. By the Void, has his secret been revealed, just like that? He should have demanded that Sokolov and Piero take these study sessions elsewhere. He _knew_ it was too insecure, _knew_ it, and still he let it happen…

               He bursts through the door just in time to see a flurry of motion vanish over the edge of the roof of the building next to the Pub proper. He casts Dark Vision right away, scanning the surroundings for anyone who might be watching, and blinks up onto the guard rail. He has to catch up, he has to know who saw, he has to do damage control, and damn it to the Void, he has to know what they’ll _do_ with the knowledge. Killing allies is always messy, but if he must do it to keep himself and Emily safe-

               He blinks to the next doorway and sees a yellow figure throw themselves flat and scuttle sideways, evidently hiding under something. They’re small, too small to be any of the Loyalists, smaller than even the female servants. It’s Emily.

               With a huge rushing sigh, the sheer panic drains out of him, though he can still hear his heartbeat loud and wild in his ears. He crosses through an archway and sees a bed bare of any covers or even sheets, and the silhouette of Emily holding herself still and silent underneath. Trying to make his voice steady and calm, he asks, “Why did you run?”

               There is a muffled thump as Emily hits her head on the underside of the bed. After a guilty pause, she crawls out from underneath, brushing dirt and dust off of her knees. “I thought I would be in trouble.”

               It takes him a moment to sort through her reasoning, still caught up in thoughts of having to start over with nothing, of having to run and hide, all over _again_. Eventually, realizing that she should be in lessons right about now, he asks, “Have you even seen Callista at all today?”

               She shakes her head. Well, that’s one lesson learned. From now own, he’ll walk her into Callista’s tower directly, to prevent any further… exploration.

               “Come on,” he says, gesturing her back the way they came. “Before someone finds us and wonders how we got into the attic.” He pauses glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She must have climbed up the air vent in the short amount of time it took him to react. A part of him is impressed, but he’ll never admit it for fear of encouraging her.

               After checking for observers with Dark Vision, he blinks them both down into the courtyard. The rapid use of magic one cast after another depletes the rest of his already-low reserves, and the vague ache in his head grows into full-on pain. He rubs at his temple with one hand, the other clamped on Emily’s shoulder as he steers them into Piero’s workshop.

               “Ah,” Sokolov exclaims, levering himself back upright from where he had been leaning against the wall. “I wondered what had detained you.”

               Emily does not shrink under the scrutiny, her chin raising just a little bit in instinctive defiance. Corvo squeezes her shoulder a bit in warning, because she _is_ in trouble, despite the fact that he has made no move to signify that to her.

               “Let me deliver her to Callista,” he says to the natural philosophers, “and I’ll be right with you.”

               At the acquiescing nods, the two of them pass through the workshop and across the corrugated metal walkway. Corvo knocks on Callista’s door and only has to wait a moment before she answers.

               She smiles warmly at the sight of them. “Hello Corvo, Emily. Getting a late start today?”

               Corvo’s mouth twists wryly. “Not quite.” He nudges Emily forward, saying, “ _Behave_ , alright?”

               She makes a face where Callista can’t see, but obeys. She knows she has lost this particular fight.

               Corvo returns to the natural philosophers, taking the offered Remedy from Piero gratefully. The headache eases almost as soon as the vial touches his lips, lifting a weight from his shoulders he hadn’t realized was there. Magic surges bright and strong, lighting up the Mark in palest blue.

               “Excellent,” Sokolov says, clasping his hands together. “Let’s begin again.”

\-----

               That night, Corvo sits awake on his bed in their hideaway, watching through the wall with Dark Vision as Emily falls asleep. He hadn’t had the chance to confront Emily about her sneaking around against his wishes, thinking of the emotionally fraught conversation of this morning. He fears it would be what would tip the proverbial scales into an all-out fight between them. Knowing Emily’s impulsiveness and drive for independence, he doesn’t want to risk that she might run away if she got too upset.

               So he had endured Sokolov and Piero’s repetitive questions and tests until the sun began to set, then he had taken Emily home. After a comparatively luxurious dinner of whale, rice, and canned spinach, he puts her to bed, despite a few bleary protests.

               She’s clearly trying to stay awake. But Corvo can see that her eyes have been closed for at least fifteen minutes now, no cones of light illuminating her face beyond the already bright yellow.

               Once he’s convinced she’s asleep, he gets to his feet, one hand on the bag on his hip to prevent noise. Silently, he walks down the hall to the balcony, slipping out of the door with a quiet click. After a moment’s consideration, he takes his mask from his bag and pulls it on. Though this district may be abandoned, he won’t take any chances, especially since he’ll have to travel farther than usual if he wants to find a shrine to the Outsider.

               With a thought, he summons the heart into his right hand, angling a blink onto the roof with the other. The heart is almost completely still, since he had already searched for nearby bones, but it does glow faintly if he points it away from the river. Destination set, he presses onward, blinking from rooftop to rooftop, a barest shadow against the backdrop of the night sky.

               To fill the silence as he travels, he squeezes the heart, letting its quiet voice fill his mind. ‘ _The great ships have stopped bringing in their hauls._ ’ Again. ‘ _Not so long ago Dunwall was a proud city._ ’ Again. ‘ _My father had golden hair. My mother, hair like ash._ ’

               Corvo pauses crouched low on a rooftop and looks down at the heart. He squeezes it again, and the voice whispers, ‘ _I will be glad to rest._ ’

               Uneasily, Corvo admits that he cannot avoid acknowledging the heart any longer. It is very clearly a human heart, mechanical additions notwithstanding, and it talks like… like it can remember its life _before_. Before it became whatever it is now. And if he’s honest, the memories it shares seem quite familiar to him.

               Hesitantly, his own pulse thrumming high in his throat, he asks, “Can you hear me?”

               The heart does not respond, beating gently against his fingertips. Thinking perhaps it cannot speak without his help, he squeezes it, his eyes focused intently on the glass window and the faint light within.

               The heart says, ‘ _A girl once lived in this building. She was crushed beneath the talons of a Tallboy when she refused to leave her weeping mother’s side._ ’

               Somewhat dismayed by the lack of direct response, he tries again, asking, “Can you hear my voice at all?”

               ‘ _The water in Rudshore continues to rise. Now the streets are filled with river krust and hagfish._ ’

               Corvo stops testing the heart. Either it – _she_ – can’t hear him, or can’t respond. He has to stop thinking about it.

               The first bit of magic he comes across is a bone charm, half-buried in a pile of trash in an alleyway. He has to dig through something damp and distressingly clinging to get to it, and he can’t help but screw up his face in disgust.

               The second leads him upwards back toward the rooftops. He finds an open window to blink into easily enough, but moving any farther proves difficult. The stairway is bricked over, and a quick scan of the building with Dark Vision reveals nothing but a few coins lost under furniture.

               He returns to the window and looks up. The building across has nothing to offer but the grim graffiti “Nothing can save us from death!” The building he is leaning out of, however, has a thin pipe running horizontally across the wall. It is pretty small, maybe a handspan across, but it will give him a launching point to reach the rooftop.

               Getting a good angle for the blink is rather tricky, involving leaning farther out over the ten-meter drop than he would like. Once he manages it, he takes a breath and blinks, landing solidly on the metal.

               There is an awful metallic shrieking as rusted metal strains against his weight, and then several bolts break loose one after the other and the whole thing starts to fall. Immediately, he scrabbles for a handhold, but the small grooves of mortar between the bricks are nowhere near enough to support him. Wildly, he aims a blink upward in an attempt to get onto the roof, gaining another few meters of height. But he’s still not high enough to pull himself onto the rooftop, and, to his horror, he feels himself begin to fall.

               He only has a moment to frantically attempt to blink back into the window, slamming his forearms and chest painfully into the wall and knocking himself farther out into the air, before he slams bodily into the ground. Several bones snap in his feet, ankles, and legs, and he crumples and crashes into the brick wall behind him, striking his shoulder blades and the back of his head with bruising force.

               His vision goes black for a moment and comes back fuzzy and grey around the edges. The impact has stolen the air from his lungs, and he cannot even scream out the pain burning within his skin. He lies immobile, taking shallow, panting breaths, as cold numbness and shock sweeps through him.

               Void, but it is so _stupid_. He- he honestly just fell off a building and _broke his legs_. He cannot count the number of times his peers and superiors had warned him of this exact fate, ever disapproving of his habit of scaling any building he spent any time in. He would laugh, if it didn’t hurt so much.

               Tentatively, Corvo leans forward, hissing against the pain, and he checks the damage to the back of his head. His fingertips come away streaked with red, and judging by the speed at which he fell, he probably has a concussion, too.

               That’s probably why his thoughts are stuck on the ridiculousness of the situation. After everything, breaking out of Coldridge, killing Campbell in his own stronghold, and kidnapping Sokolov right out of his house, he is bested by a bit of rotten pipe.

               The base adrenaline and shock are starting to wear off, and the agony seems to redouble. He’s not getting home like this, much less finding a shrine to the Outsider. He’ll have to hitch a ride in a rat or a bird or something – or more likely, in several. He certainly has the Remedy to spare, after Piero’s recent donations.

               He peels open his bag to verify, and is met with sticky dampness. A vial of Sokolov’s Elixir had cracked at the strike, despite the reinforcing metal cage around it, and Elixir is seeping into the fabric. He makes a face, pulling the bottle out before it can do any more damage. He’ll have to wash it as soon as he can; despite the bitter taste, Elixir stains still attract flies and ants.

               Corvo slips the cap off of the cracked bottle, putting it to his lips. No point in wasting good Elixir, he reasons. Besides, Sokolov advertises that there’s a painkilling element, too. He could certainly use some of that right now.

               He sets the empty vial aside, trying to think through how his plans for the future will have to change. Everything has been set back by a few months, at the very least. He’ll have to-

               With a sickening lurch, something shifts within his leg. Corvo, not expecting it, lets out a shout. He reflexively leans forward and grabs his calf in an attempt to stop it, and all at once he can _feel_ the bones beneath his skin shifting. It _hurts_ , like the impact of his fall in slow-motion and in reverse, as each break realigns and seals itself.

               Amazed and disturbed, he pulls up the legs of his pants, watching in morbid fascination as bone moves underneath his flesh and slots back into place. He knew already that his magic could heal cuts and bruises unnaturally quickly, but even this?

               With a spasm, the last bone in his foot mends, his vision clears, and his head stops aching, and just like that, everything stops. Before his eyes, bruises blacken and then fade, and even the tiny scrapes on his palms and forearms vanish. He’s healed, as if nothing had ever happened.

               Slowly, he rises to his feet. He’s still sore, a kind of deep-muscle ache he’s never felt before, but he can support his own weight.

               In a matter of a few moments, his magic has healed broken bones that would have laid him up for months, without even a bruise marring his skin.

               After one last hesitant step, he starts trying to find a way up to the roof again. There’s still magic to be had, despite the setback.

               He has to backtrack quite a bit before he can find a way upward, but once he does, it’s smooth sailing. The elusive bit of magic turns out to be another bone charm, tucked into a bird’s nest amid other shiny bits of metal. Impulsively, Corvo sweeps the coins and a few feathers into his bag. They likely have no real use, but some part of him wants a reminder of what it took to get up here, of the injuries that leave no trace on his physical body.

               He summons the heart, scanning for further magic signals. There are several faint ones, evidently in the distance, and one stronger than the rest. Corvo wastes no time blinking in that direction, flitting from rooftop to rooftop. From now on, he’ll be more careful about maintaining a high vantage point. After all, it’s much easier to move down that in is to move up.

               The building containing the magic is rather similar to the apartment where he and Emily currently live. The bottom two floors are completely bricked over, to the point that it looks like there are no doors or windows. The third floor has started to crumble, spilling bricks down into the street and revealing faint violet light into the night. Corvo lets out a sigh of relief, blinking form a nearby rooftop and stumbling a bit on a loose brick, finally coming to rest before the Outsider shrine. There is a dead woman huddled up against it, the bare bones of her arms and face visible through the gaps in her desiccated flesh. Up close, the smell is unpleasant, but not as overpowering as one would expect after six months of rot.

               Putting these thoughts aside, Corvo lifts the rune from the shrine, feeling the gust of air as the Void rushes in and steals away the world. The Outsider manifests in pieces, a subtle smirk on his face.

               “Have difficulty along the way, Corvo?”

               Corvo flexes his legs, feeling the lingering soreness. “I thought I had crippled myself,” he admits. “I had no idea the healing was that strong.”

               For some reason, the Outsider scowls. “Generally, it is not. But Sokolov’s clumsy grasping at ritual and potioncraft has resulted in an amplifying effect. Several of my Marked have already discovered this.” His black eyes snap to Corvo with intensity, and he continues, “But enough about Sokolov. I am here to talk to _you_.”

               “As a general rule, my Marked are free to choose their own paths. What they do with their gifts is up to them. However,” here he pauses, floating down a little bit to better meet Corvo’s eyes, “recently, you all have been coming into conflict with one another. Already, two have died, and if events continue along their current courses, three more will soon follow. Tell me, Corvo, why do you think I grant my Mark?”

               Taken aback at being directly addressed, Corvo actually trips over his feet. Looking down to regain his footing only reminds him that he is standing on the starry expanse of nothing, speaking directly to the god of the Void himself. Keeping this in mind, he considers his words carefully, slowly putting his answer together. “I would think,” he begins, “that we are terribly predictable to you. Over the years, I think you’ve gotten bored of watching us fighting the same battles and making the same mistakes. And so the Mark and the magic lets us change things in unexpected ways.”

               “Thereby alleviating my boredom?” the Outsider finishes, an amused grin curling his lips. “An interesting theory.”

               Corvo has a brief moment to wonder if he has offended someone who could destroy him with a word before the Outsider shakes his head and resumes speaking. “My Marked have a role to play. Each and every one of you is a fulcrum on which the scales of fate are tipped. This would have been true, even without my intervention. But when I come to you, I offer you _choice_. With my gifts, a boy in Morley could choose to flee from the approaching army that would burn his home. A bastard daughter could attempt to reclaim the birthright lost to her.” He pauses and smiles. “A prisoner could escape his cell and try to clear his name.”

               “But I couldn’t have done that without magic,” Corvo interrupts. At the Outsider’s curious tilt of the head, he explains, “You said the Marked already had a role to play before you gave them magic. But without the Mark I would have been executed.”

               “Not precisely.” The Outsider shifts his attention away, his eyes focusing on some distant point. “Two days after I might have given you the Mark, a key and a letter would have arrived with your final meal. This would have led you to an explosive with which you would have blasted through the prison’s great sealed door. The path through the sewers would have led you to Samuel the boatman, who would have taken you straight to the Loyalists. That night, I would have drawn you into the Void as you slept.” He refocuses on the present and on Corvo, a faint smile on his face. “More often than not, you escape from Coldridge, and more often than not, you receive my Mark. The order of evens may change, but the essential components do not. But I digress.”

               “With my gifts, my Marked take control of their own choices and shape their destinies to their will. However, when two or more of you cross paths, the consequences are more far-reaching than any one of you could predict. And shortly, every last one of you will convene in this city.”

               The Outsider looks aside, folding his arms. “The lines of causality have become so entangled that I can only reliably foresee the things that _cannot_ happen.”

               “What kind of things?” Corvo cannot help but ask. Any clue as to how he should proceed in the coming months is invaluable.

               With a smile like he knows what Corvo is trying to do, the Outsider says, “I know that you cannot avoid one another forever. I know that a Marked woman’s child cannot be saved. I know that none of you will fall to illness or disease.”

               “Not even the plague?” Corvo demands, surprised.

               The Outsider actually laughs at that, a short, sharp burst of sound. “You just watched your bones knit together in less than a minute. Do you really believe simple hemorrhages will be enough to kill you?”

               Maybe not, Corvo thinks, curling his toes in his boots and looking down at his unmarred palms.

               The Outsider looks away with another faint smile, once more staring at something distant. “You know by now that your actions have lasting impact. But do you realize just how far? It doesn’t matter, really. Things have already begun to change. I hope you like the future you have made for yourself.”

               With that, the Outsider and the Void both vanish, leaving Corvo standing in a crumbling ruin with only a dead woman for company. He takes a steadying breath, scowling at the stench of decay and death, and tucks the rune into his bag.

               Without even a whisper of sound, he starts the journey back across the rooftops, head full of thoughts of consequence and the future and the quiet, quiet fear that something has already gone wrong and he doesn’t know enough to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand, after 100k words, Corvo finally learns about health potions. He's not very genre savvy, is he?
> 
> A lot of stuff happened in this chapter. If you need something explained, (and it's not too spoilery ;) ) please let me know. I have a bit of a problem with getting all of the knowledge out of my head onto the paper, so I do tend to miss things.


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